


Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, AU: Stardust, M/M, The death is discussed but not shown, WARNING: Animal put to sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Angels were Stars, once. But Heaven commanded they land on Earth.Some rebelled. Some stayed in the skies.Aziraphale is not expecting a Star to fall into his back yard, but when he does, the Angel is challenged in every which way.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 77





	1. Star Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



> Based loosely on Stardust, but with huge liberties and changes.
> 
> Marked explicit as there will be later explicit chapters. Tags will be updated as and when content is changed. Any specific triggers will be highlighted on the chapter.
> 
> Specific triggers: Animal euthanasia at the end of life. Slightly reductivist version of gender in conversation.

Aziraphale did not need to eat, but he liked to. And while - once upon a time - he could have simply snapped his fingers and the food would appear - even then it would not have been the _same_. Which meant he was forced to juggle between the drive to simply sit in one spot and devour books for months without moving for anything other than more candles, and the drive to go to the small town nearby for a cooked meal or two, and then bring back supplies for his own preparation. Less than ideal, but you compromised. 

It was not that he did not like people, per se. It was that he liked people on his own terms. When he felt like interacting. To the level he felt like interacting. No more, no less. If you were around them for too long, they began to think they could interrupt you when you were otherwise engaged, or you had to fend off the questions about ‘if you’re like them, why do you---’. 

No. Aziraphale wanted to talk to the travelling merchants, renew his orders for supplies, pick up new books, and retreat back to his cosy little cabin in the unexpected copse just a little into the woods. 

It also meant he had to have a donkey. Other animals would suffice, but the donkey seemed best to him. Something about the ears, or maybe the slight hint of murderous near-rebellion in their brays. He kept enough of a garden to supplement their diet, and he told them politely the day before their journeys, and he didn’t over-burden the beasts. The rest of the time, they had a very nice paddock to explore, until they were too old to make the journey. Then they just had the paddock to share with their replacement, until they were tired of existing and simply didn’t. 

His current donkey was still young, and occasionally cantankerous in a way that didn’t hinder their trips, and so the compact was still valid. Aziraphale was all but home when there was a blaze of golden light that streaked across the sky ahead of him. Bright - too bright - but when it touched the tree-tops, they didn’t spark into fire.

Which meant one thing, and one thing only.

A Star had fallen. 

***

The donkey (he didn’t bother naming them, what was the point, when they died so regularly) brayed at the imposition of being made to walk faster than usual, but Aziraphale didn’t pay it any attention. He moved faster than he had in - perhaps - forever, until he found the crater where the Star had made ground.

No fire, as expected. Some broken branches and a screech through the leaf-litter, a trail that ended in a blackened mess of twisted feathers and pale skin. The light the Star emitted was pulsing and weakening, and Aziraphale dropped to a crouch beside it. 

“...h-hello?”

Perhaps it was not the done thing to talk to fallen Stars. He had never encountered one, though the other Angels had of course told him what to do if he crossed paths with any. They were incredibly dangerous, volatile, and wicked things. They’d lie, and cheat, and do anything to hurt you. They’d rebelled, after all. 

The Star did not respond. Aziraphale knew he should be afraid, but he could… it was in pain. He knew, somehow. He brushed away the branches and leaves to reveal the shattered mess below.

He ought to inform Gabriel, or one of his deputies. He ought to restrain the Star and hand him over so his light could be harvested for the troops stationed here.

But it was - it was in _pain_. And Aziraphale glanced around, wondering if he was remote enough that no one had noticed. He… had to at least get the poor thing fit enough to travel. Then he’d work out what to do.

The donkey glared balefully up through a mop of unruly, but clean mane. 

“Oh, hush,” he told it. “It’s not forever. One trip.”

He lifted the creature up, surprised by how little it weighed, and placed it across the donkey’s back. The donkey didn’t protest this time, and they plodded the short distance home as he wondered how on Earth he would explain this, if any of the other Angels asked.

***

Stars did not wear clothes. Why would they? They were stars. They weren’t meant to fall to the Earth. They were - or had been - supposed to land gracefully and give their light to the garrison. That was what all the good Angels had done, when the command had come through.

Come to Earth, peacefully, and put the light of their Grace into the armoury. 

(Of course, really good Angels were supposed to sign up for positions in the army, or some other service post. Aziraphale had not wanted to fight, and had taken advantage of the other possibilities to find a way to be ‘useful’. Namely, ‘observe the Humans and report back, and keep the peace’. The peace mostly kept itself, and he reported back, and that was just fine.)

Stars didn’t come to Earth peacefully. They refused the direct order, and remained - rebelliously - charging across the night sky. 

Unless something happened to them.

Aziraphale sat by the bedside, wringing the cloth into the ewer of warm water. He was painstakingly cleaning the silvery-pale skin, washing away the traces of mud and… blood? That streaked over the surface. The cuts had vanished, leaving the body whole and sound. He’d put a modesty cloth over the Star’s - ah - middle, not quite comfortable seeing that.

He wasn’t sure why. When he’d been skyborne, he’d been as naked as this. But since he’d descended, it… well. It was a Human trait, perhaps, this modesty. An awareness that things were different, here. So he did not want to see, or have the Star be seen.

The Angel finished cleaning the Star’s skin, and looked to the wings. Once paler - if he remembered correctly, he’d never seen black wings on any Star - they were now a glossy, rich ebony. Had they burned up on entry, or had they always been like this? There were several of the long, primary feathers missing, and others were damaged. Clipped, or shredded, and even the coverts up by the shoulders were matted and tangled. 

Wings were… a private thing. Aziraphale felt so, anyway. He had never let anyone touch his, and he felt even more unsettled by this than the… well. State of undress. But they looked _painful_ , and they weren’t healing like his skin had, so his fingers reached in to rearrange and--

Eyes shot open, then. Bright, brilliant Star-gold, lined with shocked black slits. A thin and wiry hand gripped around his wrist, and the Star bolted back, only to yelp in pain.

“It’s alright! I - you fell - I was… your wings were…”

“Don’t touch me,” the Star snapped. “I know what you are.”

Oh. Right, then. They were enemies, after all. Enemies? Or… some other word. The Stars were outcasts, they had rebelled and were no longer part of the Host. Aziraphale pulled his hand back, stung. “I was trying to help.”

“Sure. Sure.” The Star sat up, a tiny flash of light, that dimmed to make the skin seem paler. The voice was strange, almost strained, like it was in--

“I’m Aziraphale,” he decided to say. “And you already know I am an Angel. I choose to present as male in--”

“What? Oh… right. Human stuff. Uh, I--”

“...you… appeared to be male.”

“Oh.” The Star tried to pull their wings around them. “Didn’t really… you know. Pick.”

“You can, you know.” Or, Angels had the ability. Aziraphale still could, if he wanted, change. But he liked this body and the parts attached. They’d been what he landed on and what he stayed with, and they felt right.

“Huh. Any… reason to?”

“Well… it’s personal preference. And you could always change your mind.”

The Star looked down, and saw its body. Wiggled fingers of a hand outstretched. Pulled their wings tighter, and peered lower, or so it seemed. “...does it matter?”

“Less than you’d imagine.”

“Guess I look like this for a reason. It’ll do.”

So. ‘He’ for now. Probably. Aziraphale made a mental note. “May I ask your name?”

“Why?” The Star’s head tilted, and the flame-red hair fell with it. Strands fell into its - his - eyes, which made him blink and startle, and shake it out.

Aziraphale stifled a small chuckle. “Because I want to know what to call you. ‘Star’ seems a little rude. What was your name when--”

“We didn’t keep them. I mean. Last I checked.” He flicked his wings, then looked back up at him. “Crowley.”

“Crowley,” he repeated. “Alright.”

“Were you going to clean me up nice and shiny before you killed me?”

Of all the things he expected to be asked, that was… “No?”

“That’s a question. You not sure?”

“I - I don’t - I’ve never killed anyone!” he blustered, somewhat annoyed. “I don’t know why you - you don’t even know me!”

A frown creased his brow, and Crowley did something with his tongue and lips that was likely due to him only just having a body like this, and which… it was strange. And endearing. But strange. “...fair. It’s just… your lot hasn’t historically been that good to my kind.”

“To ‘your’ kind? We were the same! You were the ones who chose to disobey a direct--”

The Star chose that minute to try to leap up, but was hampered immediately by a wing that drooped to the ground and stayed where feet wanted to be. He squawked in shock, and Aziraphale leapt to his own feet to catch him. He ended up under one arm, guiding the shaky creature back to the bed. 

“If you’re going to kill me, could you at least spare me the lecture? I mean, I’d prefer you didn’t kill me, and all. But--” Pale. Paler. “--pleasssse---”

Suddenly, the Star fainted.

And Aziraphale was left with his arms full of limp, now-naked Star. 

At least now he knew his name.

***

Kill him. Kill him! Why would he think that? Aziraphale knew they were on opposite sides, but he hadn’t ever killed anyone at all, ever, ever. He wouldn’t, unless he had to do it to defend himself, or someone else. And there was no other way.

Right? No matter how he tried to think about it, Aziraphale could not conceive of ever, ever wanting to. Or being able to accept ending a life. He had once helped one of his donkeys pass faster, but that one had been badly injured. Already old, it had fallen in bad weather and broken a leg. 

It had seemed… it had seemed the right thing to do. The beast was already old, and it no longer looked bright and content. He’d fixed the leg (even if maybe he shouldn’t), but the creature hadn’t perked up. He knew about medicines from his reading, and knew about doses of things that could benefit, and… not… 

He hadn’t taken pleasure in it. He hadn’t wanted to do it. Maybe he shouldn’t have, but the animal didn’t have any way to communicate whether it wanted that or not, and--

Oh dear. Oh _dear_. He’d just done it, without thinking. He’d taken a life. He said he hadn’t, but he had. It had been expedited, but…

The Angel felt sick, and that was not something he’d felt before. He chewed his lip as he took advantage of the Star’s unconsciousness to run his hands through his wings as gently as he could. He wanted to help, and he was absolutely not going to kill him. Simply - help - and then hand him over to the authorities. Who would do what was necessary. 

Right?

The rhythmic, mindless actions of his fingers were soothing in a way, and he found he’d groomed and tended to every section in what felt like no time. There was golden fluid all over his fingers, and all over those black feathers. Where it touched him, it tingled. Sort of a cold fire tingle, like something on the edge of his memory. He watched as some of the injuries started to knit. It wasn’t going fast, and he had no idea how long it would take those wings to be flight-safe again. But at least they would now mend.

Crowley’s face wasn’t peaceful, as he lay there. He wasn’t moving, other than the tiny lift of his chest as his body automatically drew in air. The Angel didn’t know why their bodies did that, when it wasn’t necessary, but they did. He looked troubled, and combined with the eerie stillness, it was… unnerving. Unpleasant. Unwelcome.

Under the white sheet, he could almost have been in a death-shroud.

***

When Crowley next woke, Aziraphale sensed the change and looked up. The Star looked wan, still, but perhaps a little brighter. It wasn’t anything easily put into words, and he wasn’t even sure if Human eyes could detect the changes. It was… it was almost an aura. A glow, but not one of visible light. It was almost a sensation, or… a sense that the body (and therefore language) he now inhabited couldn’t conceive of. 

“Were you… injured?” he asked, softly. “Is that why you fell to Earth? Your wings…”

“...dunno.” Crowley mumbled, looking down at the baggy clothing his frame was in. Baggy, but… short. The sleeves were a little too high up the arm, the trousers a little above his ankles. 

“I’m afraid it was the best I could do. I only have clothes for myself.”

“...you… live here on your own?”

“Yes. I visit the town from time to time, but I… this is my home.”

“Aren’t you all supposed to be fighting some holy war or whatnot?”

“Well, there are wars, between the Humans. I believe the main garrisons are involved somehow, but I prefer to… I have a different role.” 

Why was he talking to him? He should put him on the donkey and take him to town right now. He was rebellious. Bad. Wrong. 

“Huh.” Crowley did that head-tilt thing again, then flexed his wings very gently. One worked almost perfectly, the other juttered open, and shook until he folded it back down again. “You… did something?”

“I… tried to help. You were not able to confirm or consent, but I didn’t want to cause you any more pain. It - I know it’s terribly improper of me to touch you that way when you… but I thought it would help, and--”

“It’s okay.” Crowley shrugged. “I mean, you weren’t hurting me. So. Thanks? Should I thank you?”

“Yes?” Maybe? 

“Right. So. We might have… not started out so well.” The Star got down from the bed more gingerly this time, his more injured wing sagging, but not drooping completely. “Can’t blame a - do I say ‘guy’?”

“If that’s what you feel comfortable with.” 

“Okay. I guess. Still new to this whole… feet on the ground thing. Feels strange.” His knees flexed as he bounced without lifting up, as if testing out the joints and what gravity was. “Huh.”

“It did take me some time to acclimatise as well. It’s very different here. I would not say better, or worse, just--”

“Well. You’ll have to forgive me for not being entirely sold on the pitch, but I agree it’s not _awful_.”

Oh, yes. He’d said no. For whatever reason. 

“I am supposed to hand you over to the local Angel garrison. To Gabriel.” He wasn’t sure why he volunteered that, but he did.

“...were you supposed to have done it already?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“I see.”

Aziraphale did not. His lips pushed hard together. “You were hurt. I… it would not be right to hurt you further. No matter what you did in the past, or why you fell now.”

“...thanks, again?” The Star was now walking around, his fingers moving to touch a wall, a book, a piece of fabric. His very mobile face showing barely-restrained curiosity. Crowley had never been like this, before. Solid and tethered to the ground. Flashes of wonder made his glow a little brighter, and Aziraphale was… it was…

“Ah, well, ah, I--”

“But you’re… thinking that at some point, in the future, when I am ‘healed’ enough… that you should do your duty, yes?”

“Well, it’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“I’ve got until then?”

Blast. Aziraphale didn’t answer. It seemed to follow logically, and he was supposed to be a rational creature. And also an Angel of his word. 

“Doesn’t give me much motivation to get better. And - hypothetically speaking - if I were to… not be here before that day?”

He jolted. Hard. “You wouldn’t survive.”

“Oh?” His brows arched, his whole face stretching. “I wouldn’t?”

“Ah…” Oh. Oh dear.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me _why not_?” He wasn’t even rude, or pushy, or adversarial. He knew - the bastard - what he was doing. 

“You know very well why not.”

“And I’m - for some reason - safe here? Until this aforementioned time in the perceptible future where--”

“Do you want me to take you to Gabriel now?” 

Aziraphale did not mean to snap. He did not like to snap. He did not like to lose his temper, and feel the hotcold rage that sat like boiled and cooled metal in the pit of his belly. He felt - at times - irritation. He allowed that. This emotion was stronger, and was not welcome at all. He did not like the sound of it in his voice, or the feel of it in the backs of his hands. 

“I was thinking, instead, that I might take the time to persuade you to… reconsider.”

“I shan’t.” Petulant. Why did he sound petulant. There was no debate to be had, and - oh - had he made the worst mistake ever? Had he allowed this broken and wicked thing to try to tempt him? “It is the right thing to do.”

“If it’s the right thing to do, you won’t be swayed. So there’s no harm in me trying, because it won’t do anything to you. Right?”

Do not, Aziraphale thought to himself, engage in debate with a Star. Send up a bloody flare and take your donkey and go. Just. Go. “...so?”

“So it will do you no harm, it will give me a sense of purpose, and at the end of it… whoever is right, wins.”

“That will, of course, be me.” Or, more accurately, Gabriel. And Michael. And the others. (But mostly Gabriel.)

A hand thrust out towards him. “Deal?”

Oh for… if it ended this conversation, and it was only an academic thing, and somehow a kindness to this poor soul… (Unless, possibly, could he… turn Crowley? Make him accept that he should go willingly?)

Blast it.

“Deal,” he replied, and shook the hand.


	2. The Birds and the Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a Star meets a donkey, and an Angel meets a horse.

Crowley was not a good house-guest. Not that anyone would be, because Aziraphale liked his peace and quiet. Whilst the Angel sat with a mug and a book, the Star… fidgeted. 

If he was in one place, he wiggled. Not little ‘get comfortable’ wiggles. A foot bouncing over knee. Head tilting. Restless rolls of shoulders. It was as if he couldn’t quite be contained in this body, and was at constant risk of over-spilling, or perhaps it was his astral orbit? The need to spin, slowly, perpetually, that still hadn’t faded.

Had it been this hard, for him? Or had surrendering his own light been enough to settle him down? It seemed so long ago, now, as to make everything before Earth fade to nearly nothing in his mind.

When he wasn’t wiggling, wriggling, or otherwise squirming, the Star would pace around. He’d come up with a sling for his broken wing, which Aziraphale had gingerly helped to tie into place, and then taken it upon himself to go… everywhere.

Everywhere.

If he was trying to win him over, this was not doing the job. 

The latest circuit had him missing for a chapter or two, and although it should have been a nice change of pace, he ended up itching with the uncertainty of where, or what, the Star was up to. 

Blasted thing. 

Sliding the ribbon in to mark his place, he stood and straightened his clothes to go find where Crowley was hiding.

***

‘Hiding’ turned out to be the wrong term. Aziraphale rounded the corner of his small vegetable patch to find the Star sitting cross-legged on the grass, communing with the donkey. He was holding an apple up, flat-palmed, and laughing as mobile lips plucked it away to chomp. Crowley looked entranced by the beast, and when it head-butted his shoulder and brayed, he ran a hand between those long ears and spoke lowly and encouragingly.

“...oh.”

“...Angel!” There was positive glee in that tone, and sun-burning eyes beamed up at him. “What is this? It’s wonderful.”

“...it’s just a donkey.”

“Just? Look at it! It’s all… fuzzy and big and those **teeth**. It could take my hand clean off!”

“...they tend to eat plant matter, actually.”

“Well, I guessed that.” Crowley gave another skritch, and then bounced up to his feet. “I meant, it could, if it wanted to. But it doesn’t. It lives here?”

“It’s… it works for me, yes, and I feed and tend to it.”

“Oh… it’s…” His nose wrinkled, as he searched through a language he didn’t know quite well enough for this. “...a slave?”

“No. It’s not smart enough for that.” Although, now he was wondering. “It helps me bring things home, and I feed it.”

“Where’s its friend?”

“They are solitary unless they are too old to work, in which case…” Why didn’t it have a friend? “Do you think it’s lonely?”

“Dunno. Don’t speak whatever it speaks. But it liked when I came to see it. What is it?”

“It’s a donkey.”

“You got any more things like this?”

“You mean, animals?”

“Yes. I like this one. I think it would steal every apple you had, given half the chance. And then beg for more head-skritches.”

The Star bounced over the fence, surprisingly lithe now he’d worked out how to immobilise his injured wing. 

“There is a pond not far from here. Some wild ducks and other waterfowl visit. Occasionally you might see rabbits, squirrels…”

“Show me!”

***

Aziraphale watched in something like delighted horror as the Star pushed up his trousers and strode out into the pond somewhere between ankle and calf. 

The ducks had no reason to see him as a predator, but they quacked and circled, resisting any attempt he made to get close. 

“They have WINGS,” Crowley called out. “Wings!”

“Yes, there’s a lot of different species which have them.”

“I thought it was just them Humans, and they didn’t. Why aren’t these the best ones? Look at them! They _talk_.”

“Humans have more conversation in them.”

“But can they fly?”

“Well… no…”

Crowley looked so utterly delighted that birds even existed, that Aziraphale was genuinely concerned that he, himself, had missed something. Yes, birds were nice. They were often brightly coloured, they were noisy, they had social interactions and characters. But they didn’t have art, or literature, or reason. 

Things he liked. 

But they were, in their own way, good. They seemed content. They were mostly peaceful. And they took good care of their feathers, which he approved of. 

Did they need to have philosophy? The Star currently bent double to look one in the eye didn’t think so. 

“Why do you like them so much?” he asked.

“Dunno. They just. Exist? And they fly. And no one stops them.” He stood back upright, and started walking back to dry land. “Guess I never bothered looking, after - you know - the war.”

“You never looked down here?”

“Nah. What was there to see?” 

Little by little, the joy seemed to fade from the Star again. 

“Ducks. Donkeys. Dolphins.”

“Dolphins?”

“I don’t have any here, but the alliteration was too good to pass up.”

The nod was solemn, and bare feet scrunched toes in the grass. “Why’d you come, anyway?”

“Why? Well. It was our orders.”

“Yes, but… why?”

“The archangels must know - do know - what is best for us all. And the Earth… it is actually quite lovely.”

Crowley’s brow creased, and he nodded, and walked silently back to the cottage.

Aziraphale wondered what he said wrong.

***

Crowley refused to talk for some time, but Aziraphale somehow knew that he wanted to. He made another mug - two - of cocoa, and walked over to offer him one.

“What’s this?”

“You consume it. It is… pleasant.”

“Why?”

“Because it is nice. Your body doesn’t need it, but it will certainly enjoy it. Just be careful to allow it to cool, first.”

The Star stared at the mug, refusing to touch it. His feet were still bare, squirming on carpet, and - oh - he was shivering. Aziraphale clucked his tongue, and got up to fetch a blanket. The Star didn’t resist as he was covered in it, merely blinked up in confusion.

“Don’t you remember it?” he asked. 

“Remember what?”

“Before. Before the war. Don’t you remember what it was like?”

“A little.”

“Well. I do. And… it’s not the same. Not any more. It’s…” Crowley bundled himself up, tighter. “Colder. Emptier. There’s… less. Less of us. So it’s dark, and quiet.” He wiggled a knee below the layers. “I didn’t look here because I didn’t want to see all the lights we lost from the sky.”

Oh. Somehow, that sent a chill down the Angel’s spine, too. 

“Did you never… think you made the wrong decision?”

Crowley’s smile isn’t nice. “Did you?”

Neither of them would answer. Instead, the Star cautiously took the mug, and copied what he’d seen before. He made a strange expression with his mouth, then tried again.

“The Earth has very many good things. I was pleased to find them. I confess I… it has been so long since I was in the sky, I don’t quite remember all that much about it.”

“Well. It was… it was something. Back then.” Crowley managed to find some way to huddle under the blanket, and then cradle the mug below his chin. “Really. Bright. Joyous. Full. There was dancing, and everything was… so alive.”

Why couldn’t he he properly remember? From the tone in the Star’s voice… the longing… how could he have forgotten something that beautiful?

“But… now?”

“Less. Still light. But… less.” Crowley peered into his reflection, in the cocoa. “I still don’t get why you had to fall at all.”

“We didn’t ‘fall’. We came in an orderly fashion. It was - it was to… help.”

“Help?”

“They explained it, but it was beyond what I could understand. But it was right.”

“Right. For you all to rip out your hearts, and the rest of us to turn away so we didn’t have to see?”

That… wasn’t quite… “We were doing our duty,” he insisted.

“You think any duty that demands you rip out your own self and throw your life into another Angel’s hands is-- sorry. It’s…”

The hot, white heat in the Star’s core pulsed angrily, almost audibly so. Aziraphale longed to touch it, to feel…

“Earth is a good place.”

“So good that you should sacrifice your own light for?”

“I’m still here.”

“Barely.” The Star put the mug down, and rose to his feet.

Aziraphale reached to catch his wrist, ready to argue, when he heard - felt - knew… “They’re here.”

Crowley’s head whipped around, his blanket sliding down to let his flowing hair swing free. He’d sensed them, too. 

“I can’t fly,” he rasped. “I can’t outrun them. Not like this.”

“Run. I’ll hold them back.”

“Angel--”

“ **Run**.”

***

Aziraphale smiled as widely (but falsely) as he could at the two Star-Hunter Angels who sat astride white mounts just shy of his front door. He didn’t recognise either of them, which was both blessing and curse.

“How may I--”

“Where is it?”

Aziraphale startled. ‘It’. He shouldn’t feel so offended. Until recently, he hadn’t known how to refer to the Star, and neither had Crowley himself. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Star. Where is it?”

Hopefully long gone by now. He was about to lie when he heard a howl, and snapped his head around.

“Doesn’t matter. Hounds have found it,” the other angel said.

Hounds. They’d set dogs on him, like he was some kind of animal. Like it was some form of sport. Even animals deserved better than that, and a sudden rage and indignation rushed through him.

“Now see here, I--”

The gate to the paddock was open. The gate to the donkey paddock. 

Crowley had stolen his donkey. And the donkey, apparently, had let him. Good. Maybe he could buy him some time after all.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d lifted the rake from where it rested against the gate, and swung it with full force to unseat one of the Angels. He hadn’t thought beyond that point, because now he had two Angels, one on a horse, and the other one decidedly not.

And neither of them happy with him.

“Bugger,” he mumbled, as the hand in the gauntlet impacted with his cheek. 

He was on all fours, terrified, and yelping from the boot that hit his ribs when he realised the other Angel hadn’t ridden off.

And not only that, but there was a sudden flare of almost-pure light that crackled over his head, and sent both of the other Angels right down onto the ground.

What?

Crowley - looking almost transparent - pulled up to a halt on top of his donkey. The dogs were nowhere to be seen, but the Star held a hand out to him.

“You’re either going to want to dispose of them and blame me, or…”

Aziraphale looked at the two unconscious bodies in horror. Oh no. Oh no! What had he been thinking?

“...or get on the big donkey thing. Everyone with eyes saw what I just did.”

“Y-yes… I… oh, dear.”

Crowley chose that moment to fall off the donkey, and the donkey - having rightly had enough - honked at him and made a bee-line for the woods.

Aziraphale did not want to kill anyone, Angel _or_ Star. And they would assuredly remember his obstruction. 

Which left him one choice: run.


	3. Under a Blanket of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now on the run, and needing a plan.

Aziraphale didn’t really know what else to do, other than put the Star across his lap on top of the horse. He didn’t dare try to tie him to the second one, not when he needed to ride fast to escape anyone who might have seen the explosive light show that had just saved him from a worse beating.

His body would heal, of course, because the damage was merely superficial. Much like the Star’s body would heal. It simply… took time.

Every jolt of the horse’s hooves on the ground below went up through his buttocks into stiff and sore parts that were sure to bruise, and though the cut to his lip was closed, he could still taste blood in his mouth. It was probably neurosis, but… 

But he was sure he looked better than Crowley did. The Star was utterly out for the count, so pale as to be terrifyingly so, and boneless across his lap. 

He’d.

He’d come back to save him. He must have heard his cries, or maybe he just… couldn’t leave? Why? Was he trying to get an Angel to turn his back on the rest? It wouldn’t work: without his light he was grounded here as much as any Human was. 

But then, Aziraphale had no reason to help him, either. To lie to two of his own, and then to hit one, just for being rude.

It was something in their eyes when he’d seen them, something he couldn’t abide by. It was… it was the absence of something he knew should have been there, more than anything else. An absence of any… 

Love was the wrong word, but also the right one. Not in the crude, pair-bonding sense. Or - not that it was crude, just that it was… just that it was only one way to mean it, to feel it. They hadn’t had any love in them, and he’d felt cold and afraid in their presence. 

Even slack-jawed and swaying, he could feel more of that from the Star slung across his lap than…

Aziraphale pushed the horses on. The second horse kept tugging away, but he pleaded with it to behave, and was surprised when it suddenly did. 

***

When Crowley’s eyes opened, Aziraphale had already set up camp. The horses were tired, even if he wasn’t. He’d tied them both to a tree, then propped the Star up against a particularly straight trunk, and covered him with his own coat. It meant Aziraphale was cold, but Crowley needed it more.

It took some blinking and swallowing and looking around before the Star was sensible enough to talk. “What - what happened?”

“Well, you - don’t you remember?”

“Uh… Angels… and…” He lifted his hand to his head, and then his eyes widened further. “You were hurt?”

“Oh, nothing, really.” The worst his body had ever been hurt, but nothing. “You… came back.”

“...couldn’t… have you hurt on my account.”

“Why? I - I mean I was planning to hand you over to them.”

“You… were. But you didn’t. And just because you were going to do something, it doesn’t mean I should do it back to you.” He shrugged, but then another shiver wracked him, and he was clearly holding back pain.

Aziraphale blustered, then frowned, then… “You’re cold.”

“It’s cold, Angel.”

“I - may I help?”

Now the Star blustered, and - was that a blush? Or more cold hitting his face. “Sure?”

Aziraphale decided now was the time to move before he lost his nerve completely, and he got up, walked over, sat down, and… shuffled slightly until their sides were together. Which. Warmer.

“Could I… make my own suggestion? Crowley asked.

“...of course.”

Cautious hands nudged and pointed and touched, until there was a rolled up coat under their heads, and an Angel and a Star lying down, with a wing each draped around them to blanket them. It was strange, very strange, and Aziraphale thought maybe he should stop breathing. 

Until an arm snuck around his waist, and a head pushed onto his shoulder, under his chin, and it just… it… he pulled the Star tighter, revelling in the simple contact, even through clothes. When had he done more than just brush past people, or glance hands when exchanging goods? Had he ever done anything more?

The skies had been different. Light dancing, but not touching. This was entirely, strangely new. 

“I didn’t want them to hurt you,” came the quiet voice, spoken against his neck in ticklish whispers.

“I… didn’t want them to hurt you, either.”

“You know what they want to do to me, don’t you?”

Aziraphale’s throat was tight. “They’d ask you to surrender your light.”

“You know I wouldn’t. Don’t you.”

Not a question. Aziraphale felt sure, now, though. “I know.”

“There’s only two ways to remove our light. By consent, and by force.”

And force… force killed the being it was taken from. They’d cut it out of him, if he resisted. “It’d only kill you if you refused.”

“It’d kill me to say yes.”

Aziraphale winced. It. It stung in a way he… hadn’t engaged with. They’d told the Angels to fall, to land. Told them to surrender their light. Told them it was for the best. No one had ever said what would happen if they refused.

But had it been on his mind? That one day, it would come to this? There were Stars still in the sky. Fewer, admittedly, but they were there. Had any of the others who had fallen, since, been made to comply? Had any… not?

“Is it really so bad?” he asked, wishing his voice didn’t sound like it did.

“Don’t you remember what you’ve lost?”

“I suppose I don’t. No light left to feel it… but there are very many nice things down here.” 

“I… it would be… false of me. I… stayed in the sky on principle. And…” Crowley shuddered. A shudder deeper than bone, deeper than sinew. 

“Wouldn’t it be better than… dying?”

“I don’t know. It’s… colder, now. Darker. Every revolution, there’s less of us. It’s…”

Through the canopy of leaves, they looked up together. It was darker. A little less vibrant, a little less… beautiful. 

“You could stay with me,” the Angel offered. “We could… explain. They’d understand. Perhaps it wouldn’t be your first choice.”

Crowley’s wing slid further up, and his head burrowed beneath it. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was crying or not, but he didn’t want to insult him by asking. He curled his arm around him, and held him closer. 

“If… you really want to go back… I’ll help,” he said, at last.

“They’ll kill _you_.”

“If they catch me.”

“Angel!”

“You’d be watching, wouldn’t you? From the sky. You’d be able to help guide me to safety.”

“When I can hardly find my own way around, now?” He punched him, but without any real power. “Dumb Angel.”

“Stubborn Star.”

“I’m going to sleep before you say anything else stupid.”

“Alright. I’ll keep watch.”

“Mnnf.”

***

It was not possible. Really. This situation they were in was untenable. 

Aziraphale could not return to the sky, not without his light. Even if he wanted to. 

And the Angels would not be happy with him, even if he somehow changed the Star’s mind, and brought him in willingly. 

Whether he had meant to or not, Crowley had damned him to an impossible position. There was no loophole here, no way to spin things into a good light, or positive outcome. Aziraphale could only hope to help Crowley, and then run until he was caught. 

Watching the Star sleep convinced him it was the right course of action.

Which.

Which meant that falling to Earth in the first place? Had to have been the wrong one.

Even if he’d been told to. Even if he’d been helping Humans. Even if books and food and donkeys were wonderful. Because how could you consider murdering someone, just because they wanted to be who they were? 

In sleep, the thin face was beautiful in a peaceful, distant way. The lines of tension softened, and the auburn curls that framed his face were radiant with growing light. Holding him felt warm, and good, and Aziraphale wondered if that was the trickling effect of his own, overflowing light. 

The dark wings that brushed up against his were healing, but they wouldn’t be ready for a while, not yet. They were barely pain free, and couldn’t stay closed without the sling, so this plan of theirs had to include one hell of a lot of running. Riding. Whatever was needed.

Those wings had to be able to work again. There was no reason they wouldn’t, but doubt had moved into his mind and was refusing to even pay its upkeep. Instead, it drank all the wine and trampled muddy footprints all over. 

But he had to save him. He’d known it from finding him, and the drive had only increased day by day. Crowley was made to be a Star: keeping him here would be the greatest injustice of all. 

Even if it might have been nice. It just… wasn’t his home.

***

In the morning, Aziraphale extricated himself carefully, only to find yellow eyes blink open.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, yet.”

“Slept enough. You… you weren’t running away, were you?”

“From you?” The Angel huffed. “Hardly. I was going to see if we could have breakfast, at least. I thought it might speed your recovery.”

“Think you helped with that, plenty.” 

Crowley was blushing. Again. And Aziraphale was surprised to see it was true: the Star definitely seemed to be glowing brighter, and his wing looked a little less rugged and the feathers more sleek. 

“Oh!”

“Yeah. I’m feeling… lots better. So. Thanks.”

“I don’t know what I did, but… I’m glad. The sooner we can get you back to the sky, the better.” Not that he wanted to, but he needed to. 

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh?”

“...you… don’t suppose you could… you know. Come back with _me_?” Crowley asked, suddenly very interested in one or two feathers.

“I… can’t. Without my light, I… can’t.”

“What if we got it back?”

“What?”

The Star looked up again. “I’m serious. What does Gabriel need with all that light, anyway? I mean, seriously? What’s he using it for? And do you know if he gave _his_ up?”

“He - why wouldn’t he?”

“Why would he?”

That made little sense to him, but who was he to understand an Archangel? Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek, rubbing the toes of his boot against his other ankle. “I don’t know. To either of your questions. It was for the ‘War’.”

“With who? With the Stars? Is he shooting us down, or is he saving it to blow us out of the sky?”

“Oh! That would be terribly dangerous, wouldn’t it?”

“Well. Humans aren’t a threat to Angels. So I can’t see why else, unless it’s to keep you all under control.” Crowley ran both hands over his scalp, down to his nape. “I know you didn’t want to get caught up in this, but I can’t just… fly away and leave you in danger.”

“You may have no choice.”

“I do. Might not be a good one, but it is one.”

“...your choice being?”

“Try to free your light for you. And anyone else who wants theirs. That or… die trying.”

“Crowley, I cannot let you--”

“You don’t have a choice, Angel. I fell because I couldn’t bear how lonely the sky was any more. You really think that - if I could even manage to fly off - I’d be able to stay? They’ve taken so much from us… I - they can’t take anything more.”

More? Like - like him? Aziraphale huffed in annoyance. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself.”

“Then _fight_ with me.”

“So my choices are: let you get yourself killed, or help you get yourself killed? And you think that’s better than a little sacrifice of light, to be safe?”

“Safe, maybe. Happy?”

“Are you saying I’m not happy?” He was angry, now, and shaking from holding it in.

“Are you? If you were happy, why help me? Why protect me from those other Angels? Why risk everything for me?”

“And I can’t want to make sure I didn’t do all that for nothing?”

Hands clasped his, and Aziraphale nearly recoiled in shock. 

“You helped save me when I fell. When I was hurt. Why won’t you let me do the same?”

“Because - because it’s suicide!”

“And flying off this planet back to being alone forever is _worse_. Angel… please.”

He pulled his hands back, his chest tight and his eyes stinging. This was ludicrous, and insane, and why would he even want his light back? He’d only ever wanted to live in peace, in his cottage, away from everyone. 

He couldn’t remember the sky, not really. But how could it have been all that Crowley thought, if Aziraphale had given it up? And how could it be so amazing, if it hadn’t been enough to keep the Star fixed in orbit?

“I don’t - I don’t want you to die,” he whispered. 

Not - not having seen the light grow back inside of him. Not having seen his wonder and joy at simple things. Not… not having felt everything inside him suddenly flip when that ball of pure light burst through the trees to save him. 

“Then live with me,” Crowley insisted, and the palm he offered glowed fiercely. Almost as fiercely as it had when he’d charged to his defence.

Fuck.

Aziraphale took the hand. It tingled, and he ached with a distant sense of loss. 

“What if my light is all gone?”

“It isn’t, Angel. It’s just far away.”

Was that what he could feel? That aching emptiness? That pull elsewhere? Was his light still on Earth, and could it even be put back inside of him? 

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself for me.”

“I’ll only do that, if you’ll do the same.”

So. That was a no, then. At least he knew.


	4. The Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, swords.

Crowley looked better, as he rose. Something had changed in him, and it was awe-inspiring and awful, in equal measure. The light was back, but it was sharp, pointed, and angry. It wasn’t pretty, or soft. It was righteous fury and indignation, and Aziraphale didn’t like it.

He liked before. When the Star had looked at animals, and food, and books, and trees and been enchanted by them. He’d liked the mischief. He’d like the challenge, which never seemed any more than playful.

But now - now Crowley looked like a Star with murder on his mind, and it wasn’t…

It…

It reminded him, almost, of the Angels at his door. 

Even if this anger and fury and determination were in part a protective urge towards him, it was something he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be indirectly responsible for such a change. Crowley hadn’t been warm and positive towards him at the start, but he’d never been hurtful or cruel. 

And now, by trying to help him, he’d inadvertently made some change that made him… harsh. 

It felt wrong. So very, very wrong. But he didn’t know how to change it, and the Star was already half-way up the tree to get the lay of the land before Aziraphale could stop him.

The horse he’d been riding snorted.

“Look. I don’t want to ride you back there, either.”

Ears flicked.

“If I had my way we’d go somewhere quiet and start over.”

Silence.

“I would let you stay, if you wanted. I never worked the donkey particularly hard. You’d have the paddock to yourself when you weren’t helping me fetch supplies.”

A shake of the horse’s head showed its disbelief, but Aziraphale didn’t have time to communicate further, because there was a sudden _rush_ of Star sliding down and landing in a crouch beside him.

He was doing a lot better.

“You reckon you could sketch out the local villages and points of interest from memory?”

“Yes, but I don’t have--”

A tree branch was provided, from the crouch, as one hand swept leaf matter away and plucked an area bare to reveal mulchy soil. 

“You think you can work it out from what you saw?”

“I do. And we have one chance at this, really. An army of two isn’t an army. It’s - well - surprise or death.”

“Lovely,” the Angel drolled.

“You could stay back,” Crowley reminded him. 

“You’re fighting for _my_ light and you think I can stay back?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t. It’s… it’s the right thing to do.”

“I’m not sure that fighting ever _is_ the right thing.”

Crowley considered that, rising and idly stroking the other horse’s mane. “Maybe. But we didn’t start it. And you can’t just… pretend other people don’t fight. And you can’t just… let them hit you and not try to defend yourself.”

He’d been happy, before this. Happy enough. With books, with home, with food. But, then, he’d been happy in the sky, too. Until someone decided he needed to leave.

“How do we even… do this?”

“Simple. You tie me up and say you’ve brought me in to Gabriel. Except, I’m not tied up properly, and then when they take me to - whatever it is they do - I get the jump on them and free all the light.”

“Yes, but… how? How do you ‘get the jump’? How do you free the light? Can you even?” This plan lacked a lot of details that Aziraphale felt were rather necessary to the successful completion of it.

“I’ll get him talking about what a good plan it is, and how amazing it is. Gabriel was always a windbag. Bloody annoying one. It won’t be difficult, and then I’ll know what to do.”

“What if… what if they restrain you properly, before they… try to take your light?”

“You’ll make it look good. And… and I’ll have one of those sharp thingies you have.”

“...a… knife?”

“That’s the one.”

A knife. And some flimsy rope.

Skies preserve them. They were never going to get out of this alive.

***

With map, observations, two horses and some thick, but falsely knotted rope, the two beings rode towards the Angelic garrison. Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to be happy, or anything other than utterly terrified and self-hating. 

If this didn’t work, would they think he’d made a mistake, or he’d been in on the plan? Would they - would they execute _him_? Or, worse still, **promote** him? He absolutely couldn’t face living alongside the other Angels if they were to kill the Star. He’d - it just… was so abhorrent as to be impossible to consider without his mind attempting to turn into nonsense sounds.

Why? He had never chosen any of this. Other than agreeing to obey, and then - well - refusing, when it came to Crowley. He hadn’t wanted to be part of any bigger war. And he’d had no option but to pick one side, or the other. Fall, or disobey. Fight, or flee forever. 

As they reached the outskirts of the city, he held the extended reins that guided Crowley’s horse that little bit tighter. Now they were near enough, the Star had pulled a hood to cover his head, and was obscured from all but the most prying of eyes. 

Anxiety made the Angel’s stomach jolt. Made his palms and fingers itch. Made his ears scratch deep inside. He rehearsed the words he planned to say, over and over, sure that the collection of noises that would come out when he needed them would have no grounding in reality or sense. They were going to see he was lying, and then maybe it would be the end of them both.

The guards at the Eastern gate closed ranks as he approached.

“What are you doing, Aziraphale?”

Bugger, they knew him, if he didn’t know them.

“I have captured a Star, and I intend to bring it to Gabriel.”

“A Star? You?” The Angels glanced between one another. “You can hand it over. We’ll make sure you are properly rewarded.”

“No,” he snapped, as curtly as he could. “He is wiley and dangerous, and after the hunt I went through, it’s only fair I be the one to take him in.”

Silent conspiracy went between them, conducted in gesture, expression, and posture. Then the shorter nodded. “You’ll want to keep close watch. The city is busy. Not everyone will be happy to see you pass.”

“Not with a Star,” the other added. 

“I appreciate your warning,” Aziraphale replied. “Could you tell me the - ah - best route to take to the headquarters?”

“Main streets,” the first replied. “Keep in as noisy a place as possible. Anyone trying to steal your kill will be less likely to make a move where others can actually see it happen, even if they’d all go for it, if they could.”

That was even more chilling. 

Aziraphale nodded his appreciation, trying to ignore the use of the word ‘kill’ so casually, as if it was taken for granted that the Star wouldn’t survive. As if it was perfectly normal and acceptable, instead of utterly terrifying. 

Once, they’d all been the same. How easy it would have been to be on the other side of the rope connecting them right now. Sentenced to submission, or death.

***

Riding through the city centre, every eye was on them. The air was thick, and if they weren’t looking, Aziraphale was sure they were listening. It felt like the air had become summer-storm thick, and the voices dipped a tone or two around them, like a deepening bubble of resentment.

Crowley, perhaps for the first time, was silently obedient. Aziraphale wondered if he held any doubt, if the thought that the Angel might now betray him, and reveal the duplicity. The idea did cross his mind, but not in any positive light. It was simply that Aziraphale considered every option, or he did right now. 

By the time they reached the garrison, the white, solid stone steps were crowned with a small collection of very senior soldiers. No Gabriel, but he clearly knew they were coming. Aziraphale pulled his mount to a halt, and did the same to the one Crowley was riding in on. The horse stopped almost muzzle-to-muzzle with his, and Crowley resolutely did not look up.

“Welcome back, brother Aziraphale,” Sandalphon called down. “We heard you were taken captive.”

Shit. Was that what the two Angels had said?

“No, I was simply protecting my asset, before transport,” he called back. “I wasn’t about to let others take credit for my work.”

“Strange. I thought you were retired,” another Angel, who he did not know, chimed in.

“Oh, come now. He can retire on this for many, many years.” Sandalphon paced down the stairs, and yanked the hood back from Crowley’s head. He reached in, grabbing his jaw, turning his head this way and that.

He wasn’t looking at him, but through him.

From his peripheral vision, Aziraphale saw a flash of sharp, white teeth.

“It’s a good one. Haven’t had one this bright in a long time…” The Angel grabbed one wing, pulling it to full extension, then prodded the bandaged one. “Good. You kept it clipped.”

Clipped. His lips curled into a joyless, small smile. “Yes.”

“Right, well, you can come along while we plan the next steps.”

“...aren’t you going to ask him if he’ll give his light up?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly worried things were about to go too fast. There were at least three of them, versus the two of him and Crowley. Plus whoever else was here, and Gabriel hadn’t even been mentioned, yet.

“Oh, they don’t. Well. Some of them offer, right at the end, but they can’t be trusted.” That was Uriel, dismissive and disaffected. 

“What if they want to?” He couldn’t believe they were calmly talking about murdering a Star without a flinch.

“They had their chance. They’re not Angels, Aziraphale. You haven’t been on the front line, you wouldn’t understand.”

Crowley made the faintest headshake, trying to stop the argument.

Aziraphale felt like he would be violently ill. He’d never done so - ever - but he now knew what the sensation would feel like.

Sandalphon held his hand out for the rope that lead to the Star’s wrists, the one that was curled around them but held in the clenched palms, not actually knotted. Aziraphale reluctantly handed it over.

“I want to watch,” he said, hoarsely.

“Are you sure? It’s rather involved, usually. You’ve not seen anything like it.”

“I saw my own being taken.”

“You said ‘yes’.”

Did anyone not say yes, he wondered? Once they got down here? How did they even find out how to do it? How did they know you could do it in the first place? Why would anyone experiment with something so vital?

“I am committed to the cause.” He hated how he sounded. He sounded like them. Dead and devoid of anything good, pure, loving, or bright. He hated it.

“If you insist.”

***

Aziraphale followed them further, feeling colder with each step. There was something here - something powerful and vibrant - but it didn’t feel right. It was like a song sung out of key, or the world with the colours all inverted. It… _itched_ and made him nervous, and he forced his stance prouder and braver.

The room was white. Unnaturally white. No soft edges, no signs of comfort. Just white. A large, silver-metalled vessel stood on a tripod in the centre of the room, where Gabriel was. 

Gabriel, who held a sword that looked like it contained nothing. No, it looked like it _ate_ things. The eyes ached to stare at it, and there were no edges. It blurred into the world, and tugged at the energy and life nearby. 

It was evil. If anything was evil, this was it. 

The Angel risked a glance across to Crowley, who was now showing signs of resistance, dragging his heels and arching his spine. Aziraphale didn’t blame him, because he could feel the aching hunger of the blade. The way it wanted, needed. It ate light. 

“What - what happens with the light?” Aziraphale asked, forcing his voice out.

“You want to join us, truly, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked. “After all these years?”

“This incident has cleared my mind,” he answered, which wasn’t lying in the slightest, and so was easy to say.

“We take the light with this, and store it.” He nodded to the sealed vessel. 

“What for?”

“For when it is needed.”

Aziraphale wondered if it ever ‘would’ be. And where he’d got the sword. And where he’d got the vessel. And if Gabriel even knew what the hell was going on.

This was…

That aching sensation he’d felt when Crowley had touched him. It got stronger, the longer he stood here. But instead of a nostalgic, yearning pull… now it was tinged with a desperate sort of famine. A yawning-skull of endless, endless hunger. It was enough to drive anyone mad, and why hadn’t he remembered this? Why hadn’t he been horrified? Had he been so blind? Had it been this bad, back then?

“Ang--” Crowley stopped himself. “That - that is not a good stick.”

“Sword,” Aziraphale corrected him. He hadn’t got all the vocabulary, yet. He picked up on abstracts and emotions better than he did nouns, it seemed.

“Sword. It’s not a good sword. Gabriel - Gabe? Can I call you that?”

Crowley was panicking, now, and Aziraphale could sense the shift. Like the wind turning from a gentle caress over the roof into a shrieking, screaming death-rattle. 

The sword was lifted, two-handed. “Bring the Star to me.”

Sandalphon and Uriel took an arm each, and Crowley’s hands parted as he flustered, his wings out and desperately trying to back-pedal. He wasn’t in control. He wasn’t working to plan. He wasn’t…

Aziraphale ran for the vessel, two steps ahead of anyone that might come for him. They weren’t expecting his mad dash, and certainly not expecting the direction. His hands met the cold (too cold) metal, and he cried out in pain from the contact. He was going to stop this.

A scream and he saw Crowley forced to his knees, but Gabriel wasn’t going for him.

He was coming for Aziraphale, with that sword, with nothing good in those lavender eyes. 

He wrenched at the lid, yelping more as it refused to budge. It was sealed with some form of magic, or dreadful solution, and Aziraphale pulled his wings tight around himself as the sword came swinging down.

And.

Didn’t.

It hadn’t hit him, had it?

He opened his wings, to see everything still, except the Star. The Star, on his knees, shaking with the light he was throwing out to hold everything in place. 

The only other movement was the never-ending pull of that dark blade in Gabriel’s hands.

“Crowley?”

“I can’t get to you in time,” the Star said, sounding pained. “You need to fight back.”

“With what?”

“That blasted jar for one,” he hissed. “And this.”

Everything started moving again. All at once, the room was on fire with yellow light over the cool blue of hunger, and Aziraphale felt an explosion inside of his chest. It felt - it felt like _Crowley_ \- and it took half a beat for him to realise the Star had frozen time long enough to throw his light towards him.

Was that even possible? They could surrender their light, willingly, but to give it to another being?

Aziraphale didn’t have time to think. He lifted the cold, silvery jar up to meet the down-swing of the blade, and pushed every sense of fierce, protective, desperate opposition into his hands. The blade screeched over the surface, then sunk into the white, otherwise-solid floor.

And Gabriel stared at him.

“You--”

“Y-you’re going to let us go!” he chirped. “Crowley and myself! You’re going to let us go!”

Crowley looked drained, but alive, as the Angels around him confusedly tightened their grip. 

“Why would I do that?”

“Because - because if you don’t, then I’ll destroy this!” He pulled the jar closer to himself, and flared his wings in a show of defiance. 

“I’ll kill you and _take it from you_.”

“And risk destroying it?” Okay, this plan had also not been thought about much, but thinking had done them precious little good so far.

“He will, you know,” Crowley called out. “He’s with me. I came to take it back.”

“No.” Gabriel sounded… horrified.

Alright. That may or may not be true, but if he knew anything, he knew that the sword was evil. And so if Crowley had come to retrieve this, then it must be good. To do. Or at least, it wasn’t more evil than leaving it here. “I know how to break this so you’ll never see a single scrap of light again.”

The other Angels reeled, and Aziraphale wished he had the knowledge to back up his bravado.

Gabriel’s face _burned_ from somewhere that wasn’t on Earth. “You will never succeed.”

“Yes, well. You’ll have to convince me of that. Now unhand my Star. I am leaving.”

Aziraphale had also never needed to take a piss in his life. He was pretty sure today was a day of many firsts.


	5. Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, they realise they are really bad at staying in one place.

The building moved past in a blur. At some point, he’d taken the Star’s hand and not let go as they walked rapidly back to the open air. The jar was tucked under his other arm, and Aziraphale was determined to get as much distance between the blade and himself as was angelically possible. 

When they got to the front entrance, he looked for the horses.

“Angel…”

“I’m looking for--”

“You have _wings_. Which aren’t broken.”

Which didn’t work because - ah. Light. He still had Crowley’s light burning inside of him, but it had been so many years. Could he even still fly? Indecision froze him, but then he heard echoing voices crying out from behind them, and he pushed the jar into the Star’s hands.

“Am I correct in assuming you would not object if I--”

“No objection. Flying good. Dying bad.”

Aziraphale moved to stand behind him, and Crowley obligingly lifted his arms enough for the Angel to wrap his own around his chest. And then - experimentally - to flap broad strokes with his wings.

He’d been able to get a foot or so off the ground without his light. A few minutes of low-hanging flight, but nothing more. That wasn’t going to cut it now, and he stretched his white wings wider, and closed his eyes to beat them as hard as he could.

It had been a long, long time since he’d really used them. More than as convenient extra hands when carrying, or needing to shut a door he’d gone too far past. The cold slices of air between his feathers felt strange and thrilling, and when he opened his eyes, he realised he’d gained quite some advantage over the ground.

“Oh, would you look at that!” he gasped, head craning over the Star’s shoulder to see the Earth below from this new angle.

He’d never been so close, but set apart. It was odd, having everything from this angle. 

“Yes, full of Angels who are a bit pissed you ran off with the candy jar.”

“I had to,” he huffed.

“Not disagreeing. Simply saying, if they _are_ taking pot shots with weapons, maybe we could work out what to do after we get some space?”

“Yes, sorry.” Sheepishly, he scanned the horizon, wondering where on Earth (literally) they could go next. Every day since Crowley had fallen to the floor, things had become more eerily impossible. After a moment’s consideration, he headed towards his home.

If he looked like he was going there, they’d assume he was. But then he could alter course later, and throw them utterly. Or, this was the plan.

Once the sounds of people and Angels below petered out into nothing, he took them down to land softly, so they could replot their direction. 

“Crowley.”

“Angel.”

Why did he call him that? There were other Angels. And it felt - well - odd. To either be reduced down to being one of them, or to be… could it mean anything else?

“Did you honestly intend that?”

“...if you think I’d walk in on some freaky, crazy-sword waving cult without a better plan than ‘just stop them’, you really underestimate me.”

“So you said it for--”

“To help us get the hell out of there. I assumed you’d be alright with that, given the circumstances.”

“Yes. Though I had hoped you maybe were telling the truth. Then you might know what… that is, and what that sword was.” 

Crowley hefted the silver vessel up, and rolled it around. It was sealed, and only the black impact line from the sword made any distinction over the surface. “Yeah, I had _no_ idea about that. Couldn’t you feel the evil in there? I’m pretty sure it would have stopped me seeing into that room from the skies, but also… hello? Evil?”

There was no better word for the sensation he’d felt, so Aziraphale nodded. “You should probably take your light back.”

“My wings don’t work, yet.”

“But it’s your--”

“Listen. I gave it to you because - I - I did it for a reason, okay?” Crowley’s cheeks seemed to turn as red as his hair. “It makes more sense for you to have it.”

“But won’t it hurt you?”

“Did having none hurt you?”

Point. Aziraphale felt… strange. Very strange. And deeply. It was as if he’d been reading the summaries of books, and now he was plunged head-first into the body of the text. Like he’d been staring into the woods in the mist, and suddenly it lifted and all the colours were bright, bold, loud.

Now he had the chance to really look and feel, he could sense the differences. And that, then, made him ask: “Doesn’t it feel terrible to lose it?”

Because gaining it back was mindblowing. The more he thought and connected with his perceptions and self, the more it seemed to the Angel that he’d been deliberately blinded, actively restrained. How had he been so blind to what he’d lost? Things were so alive! The trees, the grass… the Star…

“I didn’t lose it. I gave it to you.”

Crowley was…

Had he always looked like that? His emotions swirling so vibrantly around him. Had that been how he’d appeared to Crowley, all this time? His chest ached with how intensely alive he felt, and Aziraphale felt the delayed wave of realisation hit him.

“What - what did we just do?”

“You faced down an Archangel, stole their jar of secrets, and rescued me. Keep up.”

Fought. An Archangel. Not just mutiny, but the most dangerous thing he could ever have done, ever. And here, Crowley, devoid of his light was making - no pun intended - light of it. 

“And we have no idea what that weapon was?” He was clinging to the pretense of normalcy by forcing the discussion to remain ‘on topic’. 

“Black. Bad. And totally not anything I would ever want to put my hands on. To be honest, even this--” he waved the jar, “--has me nervous.”

“It resisted that blade.”

“Yeah. I have no idea what it’s made of, but it can’t be good. I couldn’t sense anything inside of it, before.”

“Do you think the light is inside?”

Crowley put the jar down on the grass beside him. And started to pace around it, head tilting this way and that. “If the sword wasn’t eating light, then yes, it was putting it in here.”

“You thought, before, that it… wasn’t?”

“Not precisely. I knew your light wasn’t totally gone, though.”

“How?”

“Look closer at me.”

“I don’t understand…” But he looked. 

Crowley closed his eyes, and the one wing slowly unfurled. When it did, there was the faintest crackle of light between his wings, and Aziraphale… felt it. He could feel… him. 

“What?”

“I couldn’t give you everything. And I don’t think you did, either, when they made you. There was a trace of it in you. And - well - even if they did destroy the rest, there was still something.” 

Aziraphale clucked his tongue at that. A tiny sliver of light, left behind. Maybe it was essential to their existence, and why forceful removal meant death. “I see.”

“It… uh. It was… getting brighter.”

“...it… was?”

“Yes.” Now the Star ran his hand over the back of his neck, somewhat bashfully. “I think because I was around. The more we… uh. Got to know one another. The brighter you were, and… and the better I felt, too.”

The Angel was not prepared for the effect that had on him. It was like a donkey’s kick right to the ribs. How did Crowley _exist_ like this? Feeling things so deeply? Drowning in sensations and - and emotions? He couldn’t even name them, just know that he felt them. All the way into his core.

“O-oh.” 

“So. If… if we… don’t. Get yours back. I… I think we’d be okay.”

“But my light wasn’t… I couldn’t tell there was any difference. And that only happened when you were… near.”

“Didn’t say it was perfect. But it’s a maybe. If… you’d want to try.”

The Star was very definitely embarrassed now, and so was Aziraphale. He’d connected, bonded, or something with him, and it had caused both of their lights to kindle? And now, with gifted grace, he was able to feel how much that might mean. 

Crowley had trusted him with this. With this power that was so important that the Archangels themselves wanted to control or seize it. With something he’d been ready to die rather than surrender.

And said power, said light… waxed stronger near him. And caused his own, faltering, tiny spark to respond. 

“Crowley.”

“Yes, angel?”

“You… will you tell me how you fell?”

His golden eyes wouldn’t lift, and the Star dropped to crouch with arms around his knees, squatting and peering at their plundered treasure. “I couldn’t… fly any more.” His toes scuffed awkwardly. “It got colder. And darker. It… it wasn’t right any more…”

He wasn’t sure if the sensations in his chest were borrowed memories, or simply empathy. “But you wanted to get back up there?”

“When my choices were that, or be murdered?”

“You… you could have stayed with me…”

He could swear the Star’s eyes were damp, when they did look up. A compulsive swallow, and hands that moved over his clothes like they needed to never be still again. 

“You wanted me to give up my light.”

“For… safety.”

“Do you still want that?”

Honestly? No. Aziraphale could feel the gloriously sharp-bright-colour-scent-aching-eager way the light within him yearned. Ached. Rejoiced. Wanted. The chirp of a bird and he needed to laugh. The look on a demon’s broken, but desperately hopeful face. 

It was. It was incredible. And it was thrilling. And it was deep, and intense, and--

“What happens if we do open this, and give everyone back their light?”

“If no one is forcing people to stay, here? Or to give their light away?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“What would you want to happen?”

Aziraphale sat down, near the Star. Staring at the jar, and everything it represented as broken and lost. All the rules. The fighting. The threats. The fear. Imagined what would happen, should they find a way to shatter it open. 

Being free. No difference between Angel and Star, not in requirements, and not in body. Just. 

“I came - I went to my home to hide from the other Angels,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t want to hide from you.”

Tentatively, a foot touched his. Eyes meeting. Breath forgotten. 

Electric whirls, crackling between them. He looked at the emotions and - and were they, actually, what the light itself was? The terrible little twists of knives inside of hearts? That glow he’d still been able to perceive, which now looked less like a haze and more like - more like seeing the emotion behind a smile, or the echo of how words made you feel. 

“I wouldn’t… give my light to anyone else.”

Aziraphale winced. He had. Not like this, but he had. “Don’t you think I’m terribly awful, because I gave mine up?”

“You thought it was the right thing to do. Maybe it would have been, if it wasn’t for Stabby McGee.”

“And… you’d stay?”

“I’d stay. With you. But I’d…”

“What?”

“I’d still like to visit the skies. If…?”

“Could I come?” Back into the black. Peering down from above. Watching with pride and admiration. 

“You never needed to ask.”

Crowley’s hand on the ground stretched his little finger out. Aziraphale did the same, until skin touched skin. The sense of the other grew, almost overpoweringly so. 

The smallest of touches. The briefest of contact. And yet, it felt like a decision so big as to last forever had been made. 

“We still have a world to save,” he reminded the Star.

“Huh? Oh. Yes.”

“Then… then we can decide on our schedule.”

They could take a few minutes, though. To just sit. Fingers barely touching, and light that bounced between them, getting stronger with each rebound.


	6. The Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Angel and a Star can't solve this alone.

Aziraphale was not used to feeling this much. Once upon a time, it must have been the norm. Must have been the only thing he knew. But as they went deeper into the woods again…

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked.

“You are going to need to be a little more specific, Angel. Plenty of things bother me. Like whatever is making that noise.”

“The owl?”

“If you say so. Why does it keep asking questions?”

It took him a whole minute to realise the Star was… joking. He didn’t really believe that. And he was scandalised, relieved, and frustrated in equal measure. “I meant: that we have no idea what is truly going on. That we have a jar we don’t know if we should open or not. That we don’t know where the sword came from, and - and--”

“Go on.”

“And I _don’t remember any of this happening the first time_!”

There. He said it.

“...none of it?”

“No! I…” Aziraphale pushed the heel of his palm over one eye. His head hurt. “I can’t remember… before. Before… here.”

They’d resumed their journey on foot, mostly because being above the tree-line left them very visible, but also because it felt wrong to just fly around aimlessly. At least on foot, there were trees and obstacles to distract from the part where they had no idea where to go, or what to do. 

Crowley halted. “You… don’t?”

“No! I… I thought I did. But I’m… it’s not like memories of Earth. It’s… it’s like things I was told, or… it felt like it was real, until I tried to remember details… I…”

The more he tried, the more he realised he remembered them with even less clarity than the events of books he’d read. In those, he could see faces, hear voices. Maybe not with the same level of detail as genuine memories, but these ones, ones of Heaven…

“Do you think they - maybe - took your memories?”

‘Why’ rose up on his tongue, then died down. Why. It was becoming obvious why. Those things he’d been so sure of… those truths. They were shaking, and so was he. 

“Angel,” the Star continued. “Are you sure there’s… there’s no one who might be sympathetic to us? No one else who - uh - didn’t quite… fit in?”

Didn’t fit in. Again, the automatic reaction to defend himself struck the back of his throat, to be swallowed down. He’d been the odd duck indeed, hiding away, keeping himself to himself. “I’m afraid I was rather alone in my… quirks. Everyone else seemed perfectly content.”

“So. No Angels.”

“No, but I--” Oh, there was a thought. “Perhaps it is better if we avoid our own kind.”

If Crowley considered them not ‘one kind’, he didn’t show it. Instead, he blinked. Very, very slowly. “Live in a tree for the rest of our lives? Like those - what did you call them - owls?”

“Oh, heavens, no. I meant…” Radical times, radical measures. “I meant there are also Humans on this world. And they do not have the same… history as us.”

“Oh! The ones that look like us without wings.”

“Yes. We could seek help from them. And, possibly, shelter.”

“What, just walk up to one?”

“Ah…” This was going to be a hard sell. “No. There’s one I have in mind.”

***

Large blankets helped only marginally when one had large wings. Aziraphale had always known his span was impressive, and he’d been pleasantly surprised to see that Crowley’s were as large as his own. They were still healing, but they promised beautiful things when they were there.

It was uncomfortable enough for him, but with injuries and splints to deal with, he was surprised Crowley looked as bright and clear-headed as he did. 

The Human in question lived on the other side of the village near his home. Close enough that they had to conceal their wings, but far enough that he wasn’t too concerned about others seeing them. More about the inhabitant.

Who was likely still alive. It hadn’t been that long, had it? It was difficult to tell. Years were so variable in duration, and Human lives even more so.

When his knuckles rapped politely on the wooden door, and it was opened to a rapidly falling expression and a hiss of: “You!” he realised that she was, in fact, still alive.

And still angry with him.

“Hello, Miss Device.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask for your--”

“WHAT is THAT?” she asked, pointing at the Star.

“That’s not a nice way to talk about my friend,” he huffed.

“No, not the - whatever he is - I meant what he’s holding. You are aware there’s enough juice in there to level the surrounding area, not to mention pull anything with any vision whatsoever right to my front door?”

“I like her,” said Crowley.

“You would.”

***

Shortly after, Anathema Device escorted them in. Closed the door. And began some strange ritual with incense and crystals and other nonsense.

Except, now that he had hi-- had _Crowley’s_ light, he could feel things happening as she worked. It was a different sort of sensation, more earthy and robust, peaty. Angels and Stars felt more wispy, electric, and loose. 

He felt the first tinges of guilt from their previous interaction. Shortly after she’d arrived, they’d bumped into one another near the bookseller, and an initially very pleasant conversation had become - ah - heated. And resulted in him being asked to leave the premises for the day. Which, when he’d made the trip especially for the newest deliveries, had not been optimal. 

“This one isn’t Human,” Crowley said, after sniffing the air. “Can’t tell what, though. Not like this.”

“I am,” she replied, marking sooty finger-smudges over walls. “I’m just… other things as well.”

“Beg your pardon. Didn’t mean to offend. I’m new to the place.”

“You don’t say.”

Aziraphale made a slight throat-clearing noise. “Crowley here is a fallen Star. He has not long been on Earth.”

“Did he let you do…” she waved at his body. “That.”

“...what?”

“You’re filled with bits of him. He’s…” she tilted her head. “Same, but less of it. Oh… sex magic?”

Sex… what?

Apparently Crowley said precisely what Aziraphale had just thought, to the delight of the Human-with-extras. 

“Nothing wrong with it. Great source of power. Even better source of pleasure, if you do it right,” she laughed. “So you’re - you’re a Star, but he’s an Angel? You don’t look much different to me. Maybe hue, but not colour. And you’re… well. You resonate the same.”

“We were. Once.” Even if the Angel could not longer remember it. “Then we were ordered to come to Earth, and… it caused a schism.”

“Not just that… you never used to feel this… this… bright?”

“They ordered us all to give up our light,” Crowley supplied. “I refused. Angel here… doesn’t remember jack shit, but he must have agreed and given his up.”

“Explains the auras,” she nodded, sagely. “Alright. What do you need me for?”

Crowley put the jar down and slid it across the coffee table. “This. We went to see what the bloody hell was going on, and they had this - this - emptiness in the shape of a sword. And they wanted to rip my light out with it, and I’m pretty sure it would have gone in there.”

She sat back in a jangle of jewellery. “That… that’s Angel-souls?”

“If you wish to be reductive, then I suppose you could say that.” Aziraphale didn’t care for her tone. But he needed her help, so he had to be more conciliatory. “The light is… Crowley, maybe you would be better at explaining?”

It also killed him to say that. He had always prided himself on knowledge. Acquiring it, hoarding it, treasuring it as the most precious thing he knew. It was, after all, part of how he and Anathema had butted heads so uncomfortably last time. It was, however, correct.

“I’ll try…” the Star stopped preening compulsively, and rolled his shoulders. “What do you know about Ang--”

“No, dear, please just… everything?” the Angel jumped in, unable to stop himself.

“...okay. Well. Once, we were all the same. Up in the sky. Stars.”

“Stars are celestial balls of flame which influence our life,” Anathema insisted.

“Yes. You’re welcome.” It was drawled, but there was a twinkle in his eyes all the same. “We kept our courses. But we could see, and hear one another.”

“Wasn’t that… boring? Following the same path every day?”

“Don’t Humans do the same, just faster and for less time?”

“...I suppose.”

“Well.” A snort down his nose. “That was us. Watching all of creation, all of existence. So much light, so much order under the chaos, if you just saw it from the right angle… until the Archangels ordered everyone down to Earth.”

“They’re the ones in charge?”

A nod. “Yes. And most… most agreed. They came to Earth and they gave up their light. Or, most of it. It meant they could no longer fly into the skies, even though they kept their wings. And they…” 

Crowley paled, and Aziraphale realised that he was now undergoing this very process, but with full awareness. 

“I don’t recall it, or before. All I can truly remember is my time on Earth, and what I was told,” the Angel said, gently. “You see, Stars can either surrender their light, or have it taken. The second option is fatal.”

“And what’s the light do, other than letting you fly?”

Those yellow eyes wouldn’t look at either of them. “It’s… it’s… losing it is like being drained. All the good feeling in you. All the… hope and happiness. It’s… being without it, or with less, you see less. You feel less. You… are shackled and kept in a dark, lonely hole.”

Aziraphale had only memory of going the other way, and it burned, feeling the radiating grief. He reached out, and grasped the Star’s hand, wanting to soothe him. He felt the pain shoot up his arm, but he held on regardless, hoping to leach out some of the hurt. 

“Huh.” Anathema watched. “But you can share it? Even though it’s part of you?”

“This was… when we were trying to steal that,” indicating the jar, “...Crowley gave me his light, so we could escape.”

“But he still had some of his own. And his was getting stronger before that.”

“And… you said, before you fell…?”

“It… it was fading. I was… it’s so quiet, now, and there’s so few of us left…”

“That implies it’s not a fixed amount. It isn’t - it isn’t a barrel that you can drain and it’s gone. But it’s… partly linked to your situation in that you can feel it increase, or decrease, depending on where you are…” The witch was up, and pacing around the living room. “It can’t be fully taken without killing you, but also it’s possible to share or part with…”

The hand the Angel was holding on Crowley’s knee turned, and their fingers interlaced. He felt the leap of hope and something else, felt it tickle through his ribs. “He said mine wasn’t gone.”

“I think you sacrificed some, but I also think this means you’re capable of generating more.”

“Why didn’t he before?” Crowley asked.

“Either it needs more to catalyse it, or it… or it’s linked to how you’re feeling.” She waved to their joined hands. “You’re both growing brighter, perceptibly, right now.”

The Star choked on a laugh. “So we just have to give all the Angels a hug and they’ll get better?” 

“In principle. But it doesn’t answer the question of why you were asked to give up your light to begin with… or what’s in that completely terrifying thing you’re carrying.” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale squeezed the hand he held. “I don’t know why Gabriel and the other Archangels made us come here, or why they would remove our light. They were prepared to kill Crowley for his, and the blade they were using… it was… it was…”

“ _Horrifying_.” The Star felt cold in his grip. “It was like looking into nothing. Like no light could ever touch it and survive.”

“This is not good.” The witch stopped pacing. “I thought… I thought there was something wrong about you - I meant, your kind. When we met, I--” She looked apologetic.

“You were reacting to Angelkind as a whole,” Aziraphale supplied. “Well. I cannot say I blame you.”

“Your lot haven’t exactly been great to my lot. And - I don’t mean to make you feel like it’s your fault. It sounds like something is going on you didn’t really know about.”

“Bingo!” Crowley slapped his thigh. “So how the hell do we work out what the Archangels are up to, why that damn sword exists, what’s in the jar, and if we should open it or bury it or throw it into the sun with a scream?”

“Just… how much are you invested in fixing this? Because I know… people… who could help. They don’t like Angels very much, but I think they’d work with you.”

Aziraphale wondered what the garrison had truly been up to, to get this sort of a reaction from Humans. “I want to put things right. Crowley has convinced me it’s the right thing to do. And I need to… I need to do this.”

He wasn’t giving up on the Star, or any Angel. Not when he knew, now, how much they’d lost. 

“Remember you said that. We need to see a Warlock. And a Werewolf.”

“...a what?”


	7. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema introduces the pair to the local celebrity-in-waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Aziraphale identifies gender a little brusquely in this, for the sake of explaining to Crowley, but also because he's not entirely clued up on anything outside of physical binary. Views are not those of the author and are an artistic licence to prevent overly-complicated discussion in the scene. Please forgive this.

Anathema had many clothes. They weren’t really big enough around the middle to cover Aziraphale, but he managed to tuck his wings enough under one of the heavier cloaks to pass as slightly-hunched-Human. 

Crowley, however, was in his element. The witch had clucked in an unimpressed fashion over his borrowed clothes, and taken him to her own wardrobe. 

He’d come back a little later in a - uh - dress? Robes? Something with a billowing bottom, at least. Dark purples and reds and black. The shawl over his head and down his back helped disguise his wings, and the flowing, red hair. It was a shame to cover that up, but it did make him somewhat identifiable. 

Weirdly, the feminine clothing suited him. He could, if he wanted, easily convince the world that he was, in fact, a she. Aziraphale doubted he would manage the same, not without serious changes to his own appearance. He’d never wanted to, and still didn’t, but this… this was more Crowley than the bits of his own, tan-toned wardrobe.

“You like it?” he asked, swooshing fabric around.

“I do.” And it was true.

Anathema was rapidly packing what she’d need for the journey, as the two of them waited in her small living room. 

“Angel… what was the girl asking before? And why does she look different?”

“You mean, from male bodies?”

“Gender is the…” he waved at his chest, then lower down on his body. “Right?”

“Yes. That’s - that’s the difference.”

“I didn’t mean _that_. I meant why is she not like the other Humans?”

“Oh! Well. She’s a witch. Witches are… they are Humans with power. A - not like ours - but different.”

“Oh. And the other things?”

“A warlock is a male witch. A werewolf is - and I have never met one and didn’t know they were actually real - a human who can assume the form of a wolf.”

“Huh.” The Star sat backwards on one of the wooden chairs. “So what was she asking? About - you know. Us?”

“You mean, about Stars and--”

“The thing that made you go red.”

Bugger. He’d hoped that had gone unnoticed. “The… magic she referred to.”

“Yeah. Ex or something.”

“Sex,” he said, as cooly as he could. “It’s how Humans reproduce. How they make more. And… they do that normally with… with specific partners, and sometimes… just… recreationally.”

“Cool.” Crowley tilted his head. “Did we do it?”

“Did - what?”

“She thought we did.”

“She - uh - we don’t really… I mean, it’s normally an exchange of… bodily fluids.”

“We kind of did that. Without the fluid.”

Now Aziraphale was very uncomfortable. “We shared light.”

“So we did something better?”

“...it… well, perhaps!” Why was this so awkward. 

“Did I offend you?”

“No. Look… I’m sorry.” Why did it fluster him so badly? “It’s just… the connotation. Humans… usually pair bond, as they need to in order to create new Humans. And - well - sexual encounters vary between casual pleasure and… deeply intimate. It… it’s… it can be a very private, personal, and emotionally charged topic.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s legs stopped swinging. “Well. I don’t want to make any baby Stars with you. Or anyone.”

“I don’t think our kind even… can?”

“No. But. Well. You’re not bad, really, for an Angel. So if we sort of did, I’m okay with it. And if you want me to shut up about it--”

But why should he? It’s just that Aziraphale had never thought he would. He’d read those stories, along with all the other ones. The ones where Humans connected deeply. Where they found one they wanted above all others. They’d always seemed compelling but a little improbable. And he… perhaps… had wished it was something he could have had. 

“We only just met,” the Angel blurted, worriedly.

“Don’t you think we must have known one another before? In the sky?”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“I don’t remember ‘you’, or… maybe I do. But why would we need to remember? What’s wrong with getting to the point of having things to remember? I mean, people who do now had to have a time when it was new.”

He was talking a lot of sense. Aziraphale swallowed, his chest feeling… well. Fluttery. And when he looked across, he knew the sensation was the same for the Star. They’d mixed something fundamental. Crowley had done it without asking him, a matter of urgency and not of malice, but they’d continued the process since.

It was… it was pleasant, he had to admit. Strangely intimate. Terrifyingly dangerous, to feel things so fiercely, and to be unable to hide those feelings. 

“What if we change our minds?” he asked. “What if we find things out about me that you don’t like? Or - or if one of us - if one of us is hurt?”

“You don’t think that you starting out ready to let me be killed, but saving me anyway, tells me all I need to know about you?” Crowley smiled, his eyes oddly… loving? “I already know what I’d do if you were hurt, or if I lost you. It’s why I gave you my light. I… don’t think I could go back to the sky if it meant leaving you.”

Was the pain and longing his own? Crowley’s? Was there any difference, underneath it all? “This is very new to me. I - I don’t know how to… how to _exist_ when everything is so - so - **bright**. How do you bear it?”

“You enjoy it, Angel. We were made to feel that way. You just forgot.”

“I’m… afraid…”

“I know.” The Star glowed, ever so subtly, a shade of colour that could only be compassion. “I am, too.”

***

“Whatever you do, don’t say anything you don’t completely mean. And don’t say anything you’re afraid of happening,” Anathema warned them.

“Why?”

“The warlock… he’s… powerful. My power comes from study, ritual. He’s… naturally gifted. He hasn’t got control in the way someone older might.”

“Oh.”

“If he wants things to happen, or thinks they should, they-- oh, hi Warlock!”

A sullen-looking child looked up from under a mop of hair, nodded, and then carried on walking.

“Wait, isn’t that--” Aziraphale watched the boy go.

“Oh… sorry, no. When I first came to town, I met the boy, and he asked me why I’d come. I said there was a warlock around and I needed to find him. The boy said he hadn’t seen one, but he’d keep an eye out. The next day, the Dowlings moved in. With… their son, Warlock.”

Crowley cawed in laughter. “He made a boy?”

“Or… brought him here. I’m not entirely sure.”

“He doesn’t know, either?” The Angel was now very, very worried.

“He’s eleven. He can make a whole family move to town without thinking too hard. Do you really think I should tell him what he’s capable of?” Anathema tutted.

“Yes?” Crowley replied.

“Really? Do you have any idea what eleven year old boys are _like_?”

“Incredibly useful, and short?”

Aziraphale recognised the expression that followed. It had been the last one before he’d been evicted from the nice shop, when he first met the woman, and he needed to stop things getting worse. A little, polite cough and he nodded towards a group of four children who were making a remarkably sturdy-looking sailboat from not very many things at all.

“Is he one of those?”

“Yes! That’s him. Adam. Those are his friends… now do you remember to not say anything unless you’ve really thought about it?”

The Angel shot the Star a look, and then Crowley rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes, yes.”

“Follow my lead.”

***

The boy left the lone girl in the group to organise things, and bounded up to talk to them as if he weren’t eleven, and was the same age (and height) as his visitors. At his feet, scratching itself and looking rather pleased, sat a small and scruffy dog.

“Adam Young,” he introduced himself, in a tone that said it had been drilled into him for Being Polite.

“These are my friends, Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“This is my friend, Doug,” he said, nodding down at the dog.

Aziraphale smiled politely, watching from his peripheral vision as the Star cocked his head to examine the creature. “What a lovely name for a pet.”

Adam scowled. “He is not a pet.”

“Oh, I beg your--”

“He’s a werewolf.”

That did make him stop. And he should have just acknowledged it, but… despite the death glare from their witch companion, he couldn’t… not. “I thought werewolves were… mostly Human?”

“Depends. Some only change at full moon. Doug prefers to be a dog.”

“A… dog. Not a wolf?”

“Wolves are just wild dogs. Doug likes to play fetch and sleep in front of fires.”

His mind sort of short-circuited then. If the boy could bring another boy and his family to town just because he’d heard there was a ‘Warlock’, could he have turned his friend into a dog? Or a dog into a were-something? Would too much questioning result in a new person, or indeed a wild creature?

“Fires are great,” Crowley jumped in, saving the Angel from further discomfort. 

“He sleeps too much, sometimes,” Adam said, and nudged a paw with his foot.

Doug whined, and then threw up big, brown eyes. Adam dropped down to scoop him up, and held the dog to his chest. 

“We’ve come to ask you and your friends to play a game with us,” Anathema said.

“I’ll have to check it’s suitable for them.” His tone was far too old for his body.

“Of course. We have a mystery we want to solve… and I know you and your friends are the _best_ with those.”

“When we’re not the ones people are blaming,” he grinned, toothily. “Okay. Let me ask them if you can play.” He pushed his dog into Crowley’s arms. “Look after Doug for me.”

Doug barked, and licked the Star’s cheek.

Aziraphale watched as his… his partner? His light-sharing creature ran fingers through floppy ears and cooed as if he’d made a new friend and baby rolled into one.

“Is he always so serious?” Aziraphale asked, dragging his gaze to the witch, who was watching the huddle of children confer.

“Yes. He’s a good kid, but I try to keep him hidden. There’s people who would… use him.”

People.

“People… or Angels?”

“Both.”


	8. Divination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's play pretend.

“Wensleydale and Brian are going off and having dinner at Brian’s,” Adam explained, as the group walked over to where they’d been waved. “So it’s just me, Pepper, and Doug.”

“Ahem,” the solitary girl from Adam’s group said, glaring slightly down her nose.

“What?”

“You said ‘just’. I’m not a ‘just’, and neither is Doug.”

Aziraphale simultaneously liked, and disliked the young girl. Liked, in that she was very sure of herself, and obviously smart. Disliked, in that he suspected she would be the kind to ask awkward questions and demand a lot of attention, and make him feel less than intelligent with her thought processes. 

He was not quite sure that he could be around children for very extended periods of time. Their otherworldly mix of old and young in one had always made him feel this way, but Adam and Pepper especially did. 

Crowley, of course, was delighted. “Quite right. No ‘just’ about anyone. Unless they’re ‘just’ in time, or ‘just’ what you need.”

“That’s who will help you!” Adam cheered, looking smug with his decision. “Justin Time. Detective.”

“And who am I?” Pepper asked. “I’m not being Felicity again. Or Verity.”

Adam frowned, deep in thought. “Hope.”

“Hope?”

“Because, I have ‘Hope’ on my side.”

Her frown softened, and she nodded. “Okay. Hope. No last name. I lost my family when I was a baby. Hope is all I had left.”

Aziraphale hoped - hah - that this didn’t really happen. Or, that Adam didn’t make it so it had happened. Either seemed possible. 

“Nice to meet you, Hope, Justin,” Anathema said, a little formally. “We have a case for your agency. We’ve heard you’re the best people in all of Tadfield to take it on.”

“Best? We’re the only ones!” Justin-who-was-Adam adopted an air that could almost be considered mature, if it didn’t come on the body of an eleven year old boy playing make believe. 

“Who are our clients?” Pepper - Hope - asked, politely.

“My friends here, Aziraphale and Crowley. And I am Anathema.”

“Brian said your name means a bad word,” Adam interrupted. “Is it true?”

“It can be, but it’s just a name. My name.”

“Do you want a new one? For the game?”

“No, thank you. It might be strange, but it’s mine, and I like it.”

Pepper frowned up at Crowley. “Are you a boy or a girl? So I know what to say?”

“I’m neither. I’m a Star,” Crowley replied. “But if it makes it easier, you can call me a boy.”

“I prefer Star,” Pepper announced. “I like your hair. It looks good.”

“Why is a Star on the ground?” Adam asked. “Shouldn’t you be off being in space?”

This rendition of the story was, perhaps, the most visceral and imaginative one yet. Aziraphale joined in, finding it oddly liberating to relive for innocent eyes, to answer honestly with ‘I don’t knows’ as they asked even more questions than he and Crowley had.

And at the end of it, the jar.

The five of them (with Doug napping nearby) sat cross-legged around a big, standing stone where they’d placed the jar. Adam was poking it with a stick, which he’d claimed was a divination rod, and now probably was. 

“It’s singing, you know,” he said, as he tilted his mopped head back and forth to consider it. “And whispering.”

“What about?” the Angel asked.

“Circles. Colours. Falling. Dark.” His head moved again. “It isn’t happy. Least, I think it’s an ‘it’. Could be a ‘they’.” He prodded it again. “Don’t reckon you should open it without a place to put it. Might lose it. It shouldn’t be in there, but now it is, you can’t take it out without being smart.”

“It looks angry,” Pepper added. “Can’t you tell? I’d be angry if someone stuffed me in a jar, and I was magic. I’d be angry if I wasn’t magic.”

Aziraphale looked again. The stronger his (or, now-his) light was, the more he could feel things. He wondered if his own original light was in there. “Do you think we could use magic to talk to it?”

The witch looked concerned. “Is that even… wise?”

“Starlight isn’t, by nature, harmful. It’s possible the… removal and containment of it has affected it.” He tried to reach, but nerves held him back. “If we could communicate our good intentions, though?”

“He’s right,” Crowley added. “Stars aren’t evil. But anything can do or become evil… the ones who Fell were following orders. I think they were misled. I don’t think this Angel here could ever knowingly do something wicked.”

Adam turned, covering his mouth, whispering into Pepper’s ear. She shook her head, then turned to whisper back. This went on for a brief while, and Aziraphale felt the brush of a hand requesting his own, and held onto Crowley while they waited.

“Pep - _Hope_ \- thinks, and I agree, that the best thing is for all of you to do it. On account of two of you being sort of like it, and one of you being a witch.” His pronouncement sounded very sure. “And with three of you, it’s less likely to drive you insane than just one.”

“Insane?” Anathema was not happy.

“There’s a lot of stuff - things - in there,” Pepper replied. “Maybe they will be shouting.”

Aziraphale turned to her. “We can do this. Together. And - and if we don’t, do we risk greater danger?”

“From whoever put them in there, and… for why…?” The witch pulled herself upright, closed her eyes, composed herself, and nodded. “It isn’t a ritual I know anything about, but I can try. I am willing to try.”

“Crowley and I will go with you to get the ingredients.” Pepper nodded to what he supposed was ‘nature’, which was, fortunately, all around them. “Not that I am endorsing witchcraft as a gendered thing.”

“I don’t really have one, remember,” Crowley winked.

“Exactly. Come on.”

***

Aziraphale was left, therefore, with Adam and Doug.

Doug had looked longingly after the escaping trio, then had licked Adam’s hand until he received adequate ear scritchings, and was now walking slowly around them, occasionally yipping, and sniffing at the Angel’s shoes. 

“I have to ask you.” Adam looked up from the sigils he was drawing in the dirt with his divining rod. “You sure you want to look? It could be bad things in there.”

“If they happened, they happened, and I would rather know. And I would rather know… here, amongst friends, where it’s safe.”

He had thought about it. Would it be unpleasant to know the truth? Would he be better in blissful ignorance? Or would that potentially risk their safety, in the future? That, plus now he would always be aware there was the possibility of something lurking, something that could come out at any time. And his ‘now’, his sense of who he was, of what had happened to him… it was no longer real. It had felt real, but a part of his history had been removed with that light, and so he wasn’t fully… him.

“Didn’t want to hurt you for a game.” Adam nodded, sagely.

Aziraphale wondered how much of a ‘game’ it truly was to Adam. “Thank you. For your consideration.”

“You know it’s in there, don’t you?”

“...my original light?”

“Some of it, yeah. I can… hear it? Surprised you can’t, but maybe that’s because of whatever they did to you. But this looks like it could be a Quest, and those can take days. Do you have somewhere to stay? Because Mum doesn’t like me inviting ‘strangers’ home.”

“Nor should she. I’m sure we can find somewhere… but you think it can be done here, in Tadfield?”

“So long as I’m back for tea on time, of course,” Adam scoffed. “I do this all the time.” 

Adam then hurled the divination rod, but Doug was bounding after it before the Angel could even process the trajectory. 

Part of him worried that this - finding the warlock - was the actual bad idea. Him, plus starlight? That could truly be deadly.


	9. Accuity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, tongueless voices explain and the adversary is apparent.

When the trio came back, Adam had already made a little… altar? Or some ritual setting. It involved a series of big, interesting rocks laid around the jar in a circular pattern. Whether it held significance or not before, it most certainly did now. 

Adam sat down between two rocks expectantly, and Doug obediently joined in, tail wagging and tongue lolling. 

Crowley had apparently given up on appearing discreet, as he’d eschewed part of his outfit to turn it into a makeshift bundle for the flowers and other ingredients they’d been recovering. He looked… happy, actually, with Pepper nattering away to him very sincerely, in the way only an eleven-year-old Human could. Aziraphale caught himself staring wistfully, appreciating the casual ease and comfort, and wondering if their decision to remain together would leave Crowley feeling lonely. Or would they move closer to the Humans? Or visit more often? He supposed he could manage that. Especially if he had a buffer between him and prying questions. 

The Angel had always been a little more isolated than his peers, but some of that had been from discomfort. He’d never quite known what to say, always felt like he was missing some vital information or awareness that would tell him how to fit in. It felt like there were always eyes on him, judging him, alert to his otherness, and he’d preferred to avoid the situation rather than tackle the route cause.

Somehow, though… even with the occasional discomfort around Crowley, he felt… different. And the awkward exchanges were something to be sought out, maybe even improved upon or extended. He wanted… he wanted to have that discussion. To be challenged. To… talk. 

So he would find some way to satisfy both of them. Crowley had already agreed to compromise in essence, so he would, too.

“Wotcha,” said the Star.

“Really, my dear?”

“What?”

“You’ve been gone barely a half hour and you have already gone native?”

“Had a good teacher,” Crowley retorted, nose lifting stuffily. “She’s a good kid.”

“It was a cultural exchange,” she added. “I can’t be a real Star but I can live like I am one. And I can help save them.” Pepper took her own seat, opposite Adam.

Anathema perched between Pepper and Doug, meaning the two of them had to sit next to one another. Aziraphale forced himself not to split Crowley and Pepper up, out of some misplaced jealousy, and carefully lowered himself to the grass.

“This ritual will show you what the whispering in the jar says,” Adam explained, in tones too lofty for his age, yet somehow still perfectly in keeping with his person. “It might be hard to understand. They don’t have mouths or words.”

“How will they know what they’re saying?” Pep asked.

“Occult ways.”

“Right.”

Anathema started to crush some flowers and roots against the rock beside her, grinding them below another one. The scent was bright and sharp at once, and she then struck two milky-white crystals until they sparked. Low mutterings that he couldn’t pick out parted her lips, and everything outside of the circle somehow went distant, dark. As if a storm was descending, everywhere but where they were.

The jar started to glow. It wasn’t the same as daylight, or candlelight. It was a colour that couldn’t be described, only experienced. A hum, a buzz below audible, felt in the bones and teeth. Aziraphale didn’t know who reached out first, but his hand was locked in Crowley’s, as fear started to rise up his gullet and to the roof of his mouth.

The darkness grew stronger, as everything beyond the circle vanished, and everything inside was covered in deep, dusky mist. Aside from the jar, the only sources of light were the faint glows from Pepper and Doug, a firm pulse from Anathema, a light that could only be seen from the peripheral vision around Adam… and the achingly beautiful glow of the Star, which seemed to spread and spread, until he realised the glow was stretching around them both.

Around, forming an ovoid form, then sparking lightning-bolt stretches to reach out to the ones coming back from the jar. They were reaching for one another, feeling the presence of like, desperate to reconnect.

“Crowley--”

“Angel--”

“Uh, you guys?” Anathema’s voice asked, but the last word started to echo and stretch until words weren’t real any more.

***

In the sky, Stars had been balls of light, glowing and feeling. Sensation and song. Wordless expression, and slow, so-slow dances through the dark. Aziraphale gasped at the sudden memory thrown into sharp focus, and everywhere he turned, he saw the great dance of existence. 

Between the stars, gathered around them like a dancer’s skirts, the planets chased in their own, mirroring spirals. All colours, all flavours, all gas and rock and water and ice and steam and metal. Flashes of storms that were over like Human breath, and a sense of joy and--

\--watching-- 

Light streaking from the sky, all in one direction. Darker, darker. A compelling call and ache, a summons that couldn’t be easily ignored. Come. Come. Come.

Rushing down, and a clarion of anger and rage and war. Righteous anger. Defence. Danger. He couldn’t work out what the danger was, only that it was coming. Only that they needed to do something, to save something. The distance compressing their light down so they wouldn’t burn the sky to nothing, landing and forcing a form that fit the surroundings. 

Darkness. Darkness in the form of a slice through reality. A gap. A hunger, that felt alien and compelling in one. Wrong. It was wrong. It was the absence of light, and caused a need to flee, and a need to fix. Aching, itching, sensations the Stars had never truly known. Louder and louder. It must be stopped. 

Aziraphale remembered. He remembered the unholy rage and terror. War. War. They had to fight. They had to. It was what they were supposed to do, and he had joined in. The dark thing had to go, but - it hadn’t…

...the light, severed like a harvester’s scythe. Split in two, reaped, pulled, dragged away. The terror and rage still boiling, threatening to bubble over, compressed in the space of these walls. A sky full of light pushed into one place, kept apart from the rest of itself, watching the shadow walk away from it…

“But who did this?” Aziraphale pleaded, tried to plead, tried to voice the confusion. 

Beside him, he saw Crowley, pale and hungry, watching that dark gash that pulled light in.

“You can’t see?” the Star asked.

“No… only… it’s like when I look I see less…”

Crowley reached up, his hands moving to cover Aziraphale’s eyes. Weirdly, it took away the dark not-glow, and behind the blade he could see the great beast wielding it. Multiple, serpentine necks and mouths full of teeth. Wings, wings upon wings, eyes and things that spun into circles that shouldn’t exist. 

And at the core of the creature, warped and twisted, was a ball of light that wasn’t light. It was darkness consuming anything around it, and the only way to see it was to not look.

“Lucifer,” the Angel said, and then every eye in the vision turned to look at him, and all the heat went from him.


	10. Retreat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, some rest is needed.

Aziraphale’s head hurt. His eyes were closed, but even through the lids, they hurt. The light was offensively bright, and it made his stomach feel strange, and he wanted to curl into a ball and groan until it went away. He tried to lift his arm to block it, but he felt weak. Weak and worn out, and hot and cold at once.

Mercifully, someone had the decency to shield some of the brightness, and he creaked his eyes to slits to see the bright, red hair of his Star falling around him like a parasol, and amber eyes worriedly boring holes into his head.

“Do you need to think so loud?” he croaked.

“I do when you pass out on me.” Crowley ran a hand across his forehead, the sensation leaving a trickle of something behind that eased the discomfort. “You had me worried.”

“You… saw him, too?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale gestured for help, and crawled up the Star to get back to a sitting position.

“You said a name,” Anathema prompted. “I could hear you, but I couldn’t see anything. There was… music, then screaming, then… ‘Lucifer’?”

“He was a Star,” Aziraphale replied. “I… didn’t remember he even existed, until I saw him, in that… vision. I think he was taken from my memory, though I don’t know how, or when, or by whom.”

“Me either, and I didn’t fall or have my light stripped, so I’m guessing it was before that, and we all had the same thing happen.” Crowley looked very concerned. “I remember him, now, though. And that one day he was in the sky, and the next… no one remembered he had ever existed.”

Adam pulled at the toes of his muddy boots with equally muddy fingers. “What was he like?”

“Vibrant. Loud. Beautiful. In… in the skies, it was very different.” Aziraphale was beginning to recall the sensations, now. The slow, winding, reassuring twirls. The eddies and currents. The colours and sounds. “But… he felt… something others didn’t. And the song went strange. Then he was gone.”

“He’s angry, now,” Crowley continued. “I could feel it. He… hates us, for… for our light. And he wanted the dark. That blade… I think it’s made from him. But he didn’t destroy the light, and I’m not sure if that’s because he didn’t want to, or didn’t know how.”

“You still think opening it up would be a bad idea?” Anathema asked. “If he wanted it contained, letting it out might help?”

“Before, it was connected to Stars. Now, we don’t know if it would go back to them, or how they’d react. And they are all here, on Earth. We’d risk harm to the local species… Humans included.” The Star shook his head. “I don’t think we should just… pop it open and hope. Plus, he didn’t manage to take it fully from the willing.”

“He did kill those who weren’t.” The witch looked pensive. “So he must have wanted to keep them alive. But why?”

“If we don’t lose all our light, maybe he intended to re-harvest? Or perhaps he wanted to use us… he appears to have convinced Gabriel and the others to follow his lead. I do not believe Gabriel would knowingly do evil… or, at least, not against our own kind.”

“Thanks, Aziraphale.” Anathema rolled her eyes. “So we’re--”

“...nothing much, to him, I’m afraid,” he confirmed. “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“Can’t hold you responsible for your whole lot.” Pepper shook her head firmly. “Only what you do, or don’t do.”

“That’s very kind, and wise, Miss Pepper.”

She nodded very sagely. “You could stop him from hurting us, though, if he was thinking of doing it. That would be kind. And wise.”

Crowley laughed. “Well. Yes. And I’d hope that’s what we’re planning on doing. Lucifer clearly doesn’t care about hurting Stars, Angels, People…”

“Woof!”

“...werewolves…”

“Woof.”

“But we can’t go straight to Gabriel, he’s pretty devoted to his cause, right now. And if that’s due to Lucifer controlling him, we need to find a way to undo that.” The Star slanted his eyes. “We’re only a small group. And there’s _lots_ of Angels. You don’t know any more special folks, do you?”

Adam leaned forwards. “Oh! Cool! You mean there’s more witches?”

Anathema nodded, cautiously. “But I think we might want to not risk bringing kids into danger.”

“Yes,” Adam agreed. “They should be kept safe if they’re kids.”

“So we’ll leave Tadfield and--”

“Wait.” The warlock frowned. “Mum and Dad won’t let me.”

Aziraphale saw the light go on in Anathema’s eyes: Adam didn’t consider himself a child. Even though he knew he didn’t have permission to leave.

“We’ll get the non-kids and bring them back here,” Crowley said, smoothly. “Mean, you don’t want to do the boring running around, do you?”

Adam looked ready to protest, but Pepper kicked him gently. “Homework,” she reminded him.

“Fine. But you’re bringing them all back here. And you’re not opening that jar if I’m not near.” He sulked, very obviously, and his words felt like they would Come True.

Aziraphale had read enough books about magic - stories - to know you had to be very, very careful what you promised. “We shall do our very best,” he said, putting his will behind altering the contract.

“Fine. It’s time for tea, anyway. Come back when you’re ready!”

And just like that, the electricity in the air faded, and the two friends (plus one Doug) headed off.

“You actually talked him down,” Anathema said, when they were out of earshot. “Huh.”

“I think it’s Crowley’s light,” he demurred. “It’s very good at saying ‘no’ to things it doesn’t want.”

That got him a snort, and a punch in the arm. “Come on. We need to work out what we do next. And possibly not keep that ticking time-bomb in one place for long. If Lucifer knew we were talking to it, he’d be rushing right this way.”

“Agreed,” Anathema nodded. “There is a small spare room at my cottage. If you’d be okay to share?”

“Your hospitality is never-ending, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I think it’s a decent price for asking you to save my planet from potential annihilation.”

Oh. That, too.

***

Humans had to sleep. Aziraphale sometimes forgot that, and now it was dark, and they were in the spare room of Anathema’s cottage, and she was probably asleep, and Crowley was sitting on the bed, bouncing slightly.

Aziraphale did not sleep. (Often.) He spent his time reading. And it seemed foolish to make the home look suspicious with lights on all night, and also he wasn’t too sure Anathema would like him to investigate her shelves.

Which lead him to a bit of a loose end.

“You planning on pacing all night?”

“...perhaps?” He chewed on his lip, thinking. 

“You could join me here.”

“Do you think that’s appropriate?”

“...to… sit on the bed with me?”

“You - you are aware that - when the - oh, blast it all!” He sat down, and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

“...why are you acting like you’re angry with me?” The Star was, understandably, radiating hurt and fear. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing.” He was being horrid, and he realised it. It wasn’t his… strength… to apologise, so he glanced a hand, with one finger outstretched. 

Crowley hesitated for a moment, before he briefly made contact in return. 

“I’m… just… I don’t like how long this is taking, and… and the fact that Humans have to rest, and… typically a bed is used for sleep, or shared when… when a couple…”

“When they do the thing with their light?”

“...well, their version of it, yes. And it’s… it’s considered… private. And I wouldn’t… it would feel wrong, in someone else’s house.”

“Why?” Crowley’s limbs pulled towards his chest, closing himself off. “What’s wrong about it?”

“My dear… absolutely nothing. It’s just… it’s a silly little… rule they have. And it feels wrong, somehow, to violate their preferences and choices.” When he thought about it, he couldn’t understand why they were so reticent, actually.

“So you’re not… you’re not ashamed of it? Of… us?”

“Oh! Oh… that’s entirely the wrong thought! No, it’s…” He turned his hand, palm up, and offered it. “It’s more that… that I consider it… special. And do not want… do not want others to…”

How did he explain? How could he? It was something much older than words, and much more gripping, more… compelling. 

Crowley took his hand, and Aziraphale didn’t resist the urge to connect, properly. To grip, and to push, and to make his feelings known. It felt so transgressive, to do this, to be so… close… but Humans wouldn’t see the rising glow around them, or understand that when their eyes locked together, that they could sense, could know the other as deeply as they could.

Every time it was stronger. Every time it felt like they each grew more powerful. 

Fear. Eagerness. Hope. Pain. Worry. Affection. Tenderness. Understanding. An understanding that went far deeper than anything he could have uttered, a sense of finding a way beyond all boundaries. 

“You didn’t want others to witness it, because… it’s private,” Crowley echoed back at him, slightly dreamy, but full of understanding. “Because it’s just for us. And because… you worry you might lose me…”

“Yes.”

“Why would you? I gave you my _light_.”

“And you barely knew me! What if--”

There was a surge, suddenly, of red hair and glowing skin and wiry arms. He felt himself wrapped up in the Star’s body, and the rainfall of kisses over his cheeks, his temples, his brow. “I know you, Aziraphale. I know you. I can see you, and you’re the only Sta-- only Angel I’ve ever… not even when I was in the sky. Never. I’ve… I’ve never wanted… until you.”

They were still connected, and the rush of fierce, almost angry sincerity was overwhelming. The Star meant it, or at least, he was sure he did. He meant this, and he felt it so deeply that to connect with him was to risk insanity from how brightly he burned. 

Was it love? Was this what it felt like? Someone he wanted nothing more than to live alongside, and to hold, and to share this… link with… flashes of visions that he couldn’t pinpoint as his own, or the Star’s… Sitting in dappled sunlight, back in his garden. Reading books. Sharing meals. Fingers curled through hair. Talking for hours, until the donkeys brayed at them. It seemed so lovely, to lie in the fields and stare up at the skies. Perhaps to visit, to run headlong across the firmament, hand in hand, their light so close as to be indistinguishable from one another…

Tears started to fall. Grief, loss, fear. He felt the arms hold him tighter as the waves rose up, and he clung to him in return. Had he ever cried? Truly, sincerely, honestly cried? Had he ever wept so much that his body shook, and his face burned? It was wet, and snotty, and he buried the sounds inside of his chest so as not to wake their host, but oh… it hurt.

Hurt more, when he realised he could feel Crowley crying, too. 

“It’s okay, angel. I… I feel the same. And… and…”

He couldn’t lose him. Crowley couldn’t lose him. For whatever reason, they had picked, or chosen, or found who they wanted. This was it. This was what he most certainly needed, and the idea that it could so easily be lost and he would have to exist without it, it was unbearable. Perhaps he would not have felt it so intensely if he hadn’t been given so much light back, because even his love for his books and solitude was nothing in comparison to this. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered, somewhere into the Star’s neck. “We will find a way to win.”

“Yes,” Crowley replied, sniffly, but certain. “I’m not losing you. Not now, not ever.”


End file.
